ALVMNVS  BOOK  FVND 


SHE    STOOD    STILL,    FRAMED    IN    THE    DOORWAY" 


The  Fair  Lavinia 

And  Others  <  , 


MARY  E.  WILKINS  FREEMAN 


NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 

MCMVII 


Copyright,  1902,  1904,  1905,  1906,  1907,  by 
HARPER  &  BROTHERS. 

All  rights  reserved. 
Published  October,  1907. 


TO 
MRS.   ELIZA    FREEMAN 


• 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

-  THE   FAIR   LAVINIA       .........         3 

,  AMARINA'S   ROSES      ..........  43^ 

•  EGLANTINA     .............  87-? 

THE    PINK   SHAWLS  .....     ?•  .  ^.     .     .  in  >/- 

WILLOW-  WARE  ......  Y   ?   .     .  145  J 

THE    SECRET       ............  187— 

THE    GOLD  ..............  231 

THE   UNDERLING   ...........  257  7 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

"SHE    STOOD   STILL,    FRAMED    IN    THE    DOOR 
WAY"    Frontispiece 

"SHE  COULD  SING  MANY  A  SONG  LIKE  'MARY 

OF  ARGYLE'" Facing  p.  14 

"HE  SEIZED  AMARINA'S  HAND  AND  KISSED  IT"       "         54 

"SHE        PUSHED        CHARLOTTE        TOWARDS        THE 

STUDY  DOOR" "  106 

"SHE    WAS    THINKING    OF    THE    YOUNG    MAN 

SHE  HAD  MET" "  162 

"'WHAT  A  GOOSE  YOU  ARE!'  SHE  WHISPERED"  "  220 

'"NO,  ROSE,  i  CAN'T.     IT'S  NO  USE;   i  CAN'T'"  "  270 

"'l    WILL     GO     THROUGH    WITH    IT    IF    YOU     SAY 

SO,'    MOANED    ROSE" '*          294 


THE   FAIR   LAVINIA 


THE   FAIR   LAVINIA 


HPHE  spring  was  wonderful  that  year:  a 
1  year  long  ago;  it  was  late,  there  had  been 
many  northeast  storms,  and  frosts,  but  it  was 
at  last  fairly  triumphant.  The  trees  were 
forth  all  together  in  a  silently  hustling  crowd, 
and  it  seemed  as  if  many  of  them,  instead  of 
taking  their  turns  for  flowering,  and  leafing  as 
usual,  were  pushing  to  the  front,  regardless  of 
all  the  laws  of  the  vernal  season.  One  looking 
from  his  window  saw  leaves  of  maples  deepen 
ing  from  rose  to  green  against  the  fixed  green  of 
others  which  had  more  direct  sunlight.  The 
dark  limbs  of  oaks  having  dropped  their  last 
year's  shag  of  russet,  which  had  endured  so 
long  at  their  knotty  knees,  to  be  pierced  by 
violets  and  spring  beauties,  showed  tufts  of 
gold.  Between  the  greens,  ranging  in  all  tones, 
were  the  cherry  boughs,  so  aerial  with  white 
blooms  that  it  seemed  as  if  they  might  float 
away  into  space,  and  the  slowly  deepening  gray 

3 


AND    OTHERS 

and  rose  and  white  of  the  apple-trees.  The 
lilacs  were  tipped  with  brownish  pink ;  the  snow 
ball-bushes  bore  faint  green  spheres ;  the  birches 
were  clad  as  lightly  as  nymphs,  revealing  their 
graceful  limbs,  white  with  the  passion  of  the 
spring,  through  dim  clouds  of  amber  green;  the 
willows  wept  with  tears  of  liquid  gold,  and 
everywhere  were  the  gold  bosses  of  the  dande 
lions  upon  the  green  shield  of  spring. 

Young  Harry  Fielding,  pacing  up  and  down 
before  the  house  of  Parson  Samuel  .Greene,  where 
he  was  being  fitted  for  Harvard,  could  not  keep 
his  mind  upon  the  learned  book  in  his  hand. 

/He  too  was  affected  by  the  mad,  sweet  turmoil 
of  the  spring^  Greek  imagery  became  real  to 
him,  and  he  was  one  to  whom  the  real  became 
always  most  fully  evident  through  the  lens  of 
fancy.  It  was  as  if  he  had  come  suddenly  upon 
a  dance  of  nymphs  led  by  the  god  Pan  under  the 
green  arch  of  the  trees.  Wild  music  filled  his 
brain :  that  music  which  the  first  man  had  heard 
and  followed.  His  own  feet  almost  followed  it. 
This  music  began  and  ended  in  the  earth  and 
the  joy  of  life,  but  that  in  itself  seemed  eternal. 

/The  earth  seemed  no  longer  a  passing  and  vain 

(  show,  but  an  endless  pageant  of  rapture.     Harry 

felt  that  his  state  of  mind  must  be  sinful,     lie 

had  always  worn  his  New  England  conscience 

as  a  species  of  stay  for  his  moral  back,  as  the 

4 


THE    FAIR   LAVINIA 

women  of  that  day  wore  busks  at  their  innocent 
bosoms.  Now  it  swayed  like  a  birch  branch, 
bearing  him  along  with  it  in  a  dizzy  arc  of  de 
light.  Had  he  been  a  Catholic,  he  would  have 
crossed  himself;  as  it  was,  his  soul  sent  up  a  \ 
petition  to  the  stern  Divinity  of  whom  he  had  \ 
been  taught.  But  that  stern  God  suddenly 
assumed  a  smiling  face.  He  looked  upon  him 
through  the  eyes  of  countless  \£k5wers ;  He  breath 
ed  love  and  reassurance  through  all  the  soft 
voices  of  the  spring.  Harry  was  gazing  up  with 
great  black  eyes,  as  full  of  wondering  delight 
as  a  child's,  at  the  blue  crystal  of  the  sky, 
against  which  tossed  the  gold  feathers  of  the 
trees,  when  another  young  man,  emerging  from 
the  parson's  gate,  purposely  collided  with  him. 
Harry's  hand  which  did  not  hold  the  book 
clinched  involuntarily,  and  he  frowned;  for 
although  destined  for  the  ministry,  he  had 
fighting  blood  in  his  veins.  Then  he  laughed, 
for  it  was  only  John  Brooks,  who  was  always 
playing  off  a  jest  upon  some  one  whenever  he 
was  able. 

John  Brooks  was  tall  and  loose-jointed  and 
clumsy e  His  blond,  streaky  hair  fell  in  straight 
lines  over  his  high  stock,  which  cut  his  double 
chin  and  forced  his  head  back  into  a  pose  of 
obstinacy  which  well  expressed  him,  in  spite 
of  the  humorous  twinkle  in  his  prominent  blue 

5 


THE   FAIR    LAVINIA   AND   OTHERS 

eyes.  He  clapped  a  heavy  hand  upon  the 
other's  shoulder.  "What  are  you  mooning 
about,  sir?"  he  asked. 

"I  am  not  mooning." 

1  'Not  mooning?  You  are  walking  on  the 
moon  instead  of  the  earth,  and  the  wool  which 
the  moon-calves  shed  is  clinging  to  you.  The 
spring  fever  has  got  in  your  blood,  brother. 
Purges  both  for  the  body  and  mind  you  need. 
I  will  prescribe— 

Henry  gave  the  other  young  man  an  im 
patient  shove.  "Enough  of  this  nonsense!" 
he  cried,  angrily. 

"Nay,  but  wait  a  bit,  sir.  You  have  not 
heard  my  prescription.  'Tis  no  bitter  pill,  but 
the  sweetest  morsel  that  ever  was.  'Tis  my 
cousin  Lavinia  Creevy,  otherwise  known  as 
the  'fair  Lavinia,'  and  well  she  deserves  to 
be  so  known.  She  comes  by  stage  this  after 
noon  with  my  aunt  Elizabeth,  to  be  present 
at  the  closing  exercises.  So  look  your  best, 
Harry,  and  be  on  the  alert,  for  the  fair  Lavinia 
is  well  versed  in  book-lore.  She  has  some 
knowledge  of  Latin  even;  and  yet  she  is  a 
notable  housewife.  Shall  I  tell  you  how  she 
is  favored,  Harry?" 

Fielding  looked  at  his  book.  "I  have  no 
time,"  he  replied,  in  a  curious,  wavering,  fas 
cinated  voice. 

6 


THE    FAIR    LAVINIA 

The  other  laughed.  "That  is  what  time  is 
for  in  the  spring,"  he  said.  "The  fair  Lavinia 
is  tall  and  slender,  but  not  too  slender,  and  she 
has  the  way  of  a  gentle  and  good  woman;  and 
yet  she  can  laugh,  when  the  matter  be  worth 
laughter,  not  giggling  at  naught,  as  is  the  way 
with  some  maids.  She  is  discreet  and  modest, 
and  she  is  not  shamefaced,  since  she  knows 
wrell  her  own  worth,  though  she  is  not  puffed 
up  by  it.  She  has  no  megrims,  nor  need  to 
dose  with  salts,  and  the  like,  for  swooning,  like 
most  of  her  sex.  For  the  rest,  she  is  as  fair  as 
a  lily,  and  it  seems  as  if  her  veins  ran  silver; 
and  her  eyes  are  like  violets,  and  her  throat  is 
long  and  white,  and  drooping  in  the  swath  of 
lace  which  veils  its  fairness;  and  her  hair  is 
long,  with  curls  over  the  ears,  and  caught  up 
with  a  high  comb,  and  shining  like  gold.  And 
her  cheeks  and  lips  are  like  blushing  roses. 
She  is  the  belle  of  all  Whitfield,  and  indeed  of 
the  whole  county;  and  yet  she  has  seen  no 
one  to  whom  her  heart  inclined,  although  she 
is  so  gentle  to  all,  and  so  pitying  that  she  has 
not  love  to  give  them.  Sometimes  it  seems  to 
me  that  the  maid  will  wed  without  loving,  so 
sorrowful  she  is  for  lack  of  love  to  return  for 
love,  and  so  willing  to  bestow  her  sweetness 
and  kindness  upon  all." 

"Nay,  that  she  must  not  do,"  cried  Fielding. 


THE    FAIR    LAVINIA   AND    OTHERS 

Then  his  face  flushed  angrily  at  the  other's 
laugh. 

"  Caught  you  are  already  at  the  mere  tale  of 
a  maid's  charms,"  cried  John  Brooks,  with  an 
elfish  twinkle,  "and  what  will  you  be  at  the 
sight  of  her?  Your  mouth  is  all  ready  for 
sweets,  Harry.  Make  ready  yourself  in  your 
best  before  the  Whit  field  stage  arrives.  Is 
any  of  your  own  family  coming,  Harry?" 

"My  father  and  Isabel  Done." 

"Isabel  Done?" 

"Isabel  Done  is  a  distant  cousin,  an  orphan, 
who  has  lived  with  us  since  my  mother  died, 
and  keeps  hou  e  for  my  father." 

"Young?" 

"A  year  younger  than  I." 

"Is  she  fair  to  see?" 

"I  know  not." 

"You  know  not?  Why,  have  you  not  seen 
her,  man?" 

"As  often  as  the  face  of  the  clock." 

"And  you  know  not  how  she  looks?  Then 
she  is  not  fair." 

"Who  said  she  was  not  overfair?  She  is  as 
fair  as  any.  None  ever  said  Isabel  was  not  fair. " 

"And  I  dare  say  she  has  a  disposition  of  the 
best." 

"  Who  said  she  had  not  would  need  to  reckon 
with  me,"  cried  Harry,  hotly. 

8 


THE   FAIR    LAVINIA 

Brooks  laughed.  "Well,  Harry,"  he  said, 
"put  on  that  flowered  waistcoat  of  yours  be 
fore  the  Whitfield  stage  comes  in,  bringing  the 
fair  Lavinia."  Brooks  laughed  again  mock 
ingly  at  the  eager  look  in  Harry's  eyes,  but  the 
boy  was  too  possessed  by  the  fair  image  which 
his  friend  had  conjured  up  to  notice  the  mock 
ery.  A  strong  imagination  had  Harry  Fielding, 
and  was  given  to  writing  poetry  upon  the  sly, 
and  his  mental  vision  projected  itself  towards 
the  future  and  the  unseen  to  such  an  extent 
that  he  had  a  species  of  mental  short-sighted 
ness,  but  knew  it  not./  Dreams  were  to  him 
more  real  than  verities,  and  a  verity  to  become  ^ 
substantial  to  hi  <  must  needs  be  transposed  / 
into  a  dream.  All  this  John  Brooks,  who  had 
a  wit  and  understanding  beyond  his  years, 
knew,  and  regaled  himself  upon,  although  his 
friend  knew  nothing  of  it.  Being  of  such  a 
serious  and  enthusiastic  nature,  he  had  little 
sense  of  humor. 

After  John  Brooks  had  left  him,  he  continued 
to  pace  up  and  down  before  the  parson's  house, 
with  its  hip-roof  and  projecting  second  story, 
and  its  garden  bordered  by  box,  which  was 
coming  forth  bravely.  Harry  smelled  the 
strange  acrid  odor  of  the  box,  wrought  into  a 
bouquet  of  perfume  with  musk  and  clove-pinks 
and  the  almond  of  fruit  blossoms  and  the  vital 


THE   FAIR   LAVINIA   AND    OTHERS 

breath  of  new  grass,  and  now  he/  could  also 
realize  emanating  from  his  own  soui  a  fragrance 
which  accorded  well  with  that  of  the  spring. 
The  fair  Lavinia  was  what  he  had  so  innocently 
and  wonderingly  missed.  Now  he  had  her 
image  close  to  his  heart,  as  close  as  the  maid 
herself  could  ever  be — perhaps  closer.  He  saw 
her:  that  gentle, pitying  creature  of  ivory  and 
rose  and  silver,  fashioned  like  some  sweet  idol 
of  the  emotions.  He  saw  her  before  him  with 
the  eyes  of  his  spirit ;  he  noted  the  radiant  droop 
of  her  golden  curls,  the  mottled  shell  of  the 
comb  which  crowned  them,  the  wonderful  soft 
radiance  of  her  blue  eyes,  and  her  tender  smile, 
which  withheld  nothing  and  offered  nothing, 
but  was  wholly  maidenly,  and  he  smiled  at  her 
with  his  whole  soul,  and  loved  her  with  his 
whole  soul. 

The  Whitfield  stage  was  half  an  hour  late 
that  afternoon,  on  account  of  one  of  the  lead 
ers  casting  a  shoe  and  having  to  delay  at  a 
smithy.  The  Boston  stage,  which  was  prop 
erly  due  some  time  later,  arrived  first.  Harry, 
in  a  brave-flowered  waistcoat,  was  at  the  gate 
with  John  Brooks  lnd  some  other  of  his  fellows. 
Harry's  face  fell  when  the  stage  came  fully  into 
sight,  for  he  had  thought  it  would  come  from 
Whitfield,  but  he  stepped  forward  to  welcome 
his  father  and  Isabel  Done.  However,  only 

10 


THE    FAIR    LAVINIA 

Isabel,  clad  in  dove  gray,  with  a  little  gray 
mantle  and  a  bonnet  with  a  gray  plume,  alight 
ed  to  greet  him.  His  father  had  been  detained 
in  Boston  by  a  stress  of  business.  Isabel  paled 
a  little  when  she  first  saw  Harry,  although  she 
had  but  little  color  to  lose  in  any  case,  but  she 
greeted  him  with  a  gentle  dignity  and  kindness, 
as  was  her  wont,  and  pointed  prettily  her  little 
satin-shod  foot  as  she  advanced  up  the  box- 
bordered  path  to  the  parson's  house,  with  Harry 
by  her  side  and  the  admiring  glances  of  all  the 
young  men  upon  her.  She  saw  these  glances 
without  seeming  to  see  them,  but  she  would 
have  given  them  all  for  one  such  glance  from 
Harry  Fielding's  eyes.  She  was  a  beauty, 
albeit  of  a  singular  type.  Not  a  trace  of  rose 
was  there  in  her  smoothly  curved  cheek,  which 
had  instead  a  warm  ivory-color,  perhaps  ob 
tained  through  some  Spanish  ancestor  whose 
blood  had  mixed  with  the  Anglo-Saxon  years 
ago.  Her  eyes  were  blue,  with  thick  fair  brows 
and  lashes,  and  her  hair  rippling  in  great  ripples 
so  matched  her  ivory-toned  skin  that  she  might 
have  been  a  statue  for  her  whole  coloring,  ex 
cept  the  faint  rose  of  her  lips.  She  was  no 
sooner  in  her  bedroom  removing  the  dust  of 
travel  than  John  Brooks  had  Harry  Fielding 
by  the  velvet  collar  and  was  shaking  him. 
"And  you  knew  not  how  that  beauty  looked," 

ii 


THE    FAIR   LAVINIA   AND    OTHERS 

cried  he.     "Fie!  man,  hast  no  eyes   in  thine 
head?" 

/Fielding  shook  himself  free.  "Isabel  is  well 
enough  to  see,"  he  replied,  "but  I  have  always 
seen  her,  and,  to  tell  the  truth,  she  looks  to  me 
as  like  other  girls  as  one  of  those  pinks  in  the 
bed  yonder  looks  like  all  the  other  pinks." 
With  that  Fielding  pointed  to  a  bed  of  pinks 
which  were  bursting  from  their  calyxes  with 
excess  of  bloom  and  exhaling  a  breath  of  honey 
and  cloves. 

Brooks  looked  at  him  contemptuously.  "As 
much  like  other  girls  as  one  of  the  pinks  like 
the  others!"  mocked  he.  " She  is  a  rose  among 
common  blooms,  or  a  lily.  You  are  thinking 
but  of  the  fair  Lavinia.  How  near  is  the  cousin- 
ship  between  you  and  that  beauty?" 

"Not  near,"  replied  Harry,  absently,  star 
ing  down  the  road,  from  which  columns  of 
golden  dust  were  slowly  rising  in  the  light  of 
the  setting  sun.  "I  hear  the  Whitfield  stage." 

"Yes,  so  do  I,"  mocked  Brooks;  "and  now 
for  the  fair  Lavinia,  to  whom  without  even  one 
glimpse  of  her  you  have  fallen  captive!"  Then 
the  great  stage  rolled  up  with  tramp  of  hoof  and 
toot  of  horn  and  crack  of  whip,  and  the  pas 
sengers  swarmed  forth.  There  were  many,  for 
a  number  of  the  young  men  who  attended  Par 
son  Greene's  school  came  from  that  section  of 

12 


THE   FAIR   LAVINIA 

the  country.  Fielding  watched  with  his  heart 
thumping.  He  saw  his  friend  John  Brooks  step 
forward  and  greet  with  a  kiss  a  small  maiden 
who  resembled  him  closely.  Then  he  watched 
for  the  fair  Lavinia;  but  after  John  Brooks 's 
sister  descended  a  monstrous  stout  lady,  per 
spiring  in  a  purple  shot  silk,  with  a  long,  black 
wrought-lace  veil  to  her  bonnet,  which  the  wind 
caught  and  so  enveloped  her  that  she  was  a 
long  time  in  getting  untangled  and  being  able 
to  alight  at  all.  Then  came  two  gentlemen, 
with  columnar  necks  stiffly  set  in  high  stocks, 
and  a  little  girl  with  tight  braids  of  flaxen  hair 
tied  with  blue  ribbons  standing  out  at  right 
angles,  and  dragged  at  the  hand  of  her  mother, 
then  an  elderly  and  thin  woman  in  black  who 
greeted  a  young  man  with  a  burst  of  soft  tears, 
and  divers  others.  At  last  the  stage  was 
emptied,  the  driver  gathered  up  his  reins  and 
drove  away,  and  there  was  no  fair  Lavinia. 
Brooks 's  sister  had  entered  the  house  with  the 
rest,  and  Harry  approached  him  hesitatingly. 
Brooks  shot  a  queer  side  wise  glance  at  him. 
He  was  switching  with  his  slender  cane  a  clump 
of  heartsease  which  grew  beside  the  path. 

"Your  sister  came  alone,"  said  Harry,  and 
he  also  switched  with  his  cane  at  the  hearts 
ease. 

" Yes,  Harry;  the  fair  Lavinia  has,  what  one 
13 


THE   FAIR   LAVINIA   AND   OTHERS 

so  fair  should  be  exempt  from,  an  attack  of  the 
quinsy,  and  the  doctor  thought  it  not  safe  for 
her  to  take  the  journey." 

Harry's  face  fell.  He  did  not  look  at  his 
friend,  whose  face  was  full  of  high  enjoyment. 

The  two  presently  began  pacing  up  and 
down  before  the  house,  and  again  Brooks  de 
scanted  upon  the  charms  of  Lavinia  Creevy, 
and  poor  Harry's  face  lengthened  more  and 
more  because  she  had  not  arrived.  Then  ap 
peared  Eliza  Brooks,  gayly  arrayed  in  a  shot 
silk  of  olive  green,  wearing  a  fine  gold  chain 
with  a  locket,  and  a  high  shell  comb.  Although 
so  much  like  her  brother,  she  was  so  fair  a  copy 
of  him  that  she  almost  seemed  a  beauty  beside 
him.  She  courtesied  prettily  to  Harry,  and  there 
being  yet  some  time  before  supper,  she  strolled 
down  the  road  with  him,  while  Brooks  went 
back  to  the  house.  John  Brooks 's  sister  Eliza 
echoed  to  the  full  her  brother's  praise  of  La 
vinia  Creevy.  She  said  even  more,  were  it  pos 
sible,  and  enlarged  greatly  upon  her  accom 
plishments  and  sweetness  of  disposition. 

"And  there  she  lies  at  home  suffering  with 
a  quinsy,  the  sweetheart,  while  I  am  junketing 
abroad,"  said  she.  "I  would  not  have  come 
had  she  not  so  sweetly  urged  it  upon  me,  and 
had  not  dear  Aunt  Elizabeth,  who  is  so  good  a 
nurse,  been  with  her  and  also  urged  it.  Dear 


THE   FAIR   LAVINIA 

Lavinia,  she  even  wept  at  the  thought  that  I 
might  lose  my  pleasure  upon  her  account. 
Never  was  such  a  darling  and  such  a  beauty." 

When  Harry  Fielding  seated  himself  at  the 
supper-table  by  the  side  of  Eliza,  he  had  no 
thought  for  the  light  biscuits  and  preserves 
and  cakes  and  tea,  and  cream  in  silver  jugs. 
He  had  no  thought  for  any  one  or  any  thing 
except  that  fair  Lavinia  Creevy,  although  now 
and  then  he  looked  with  a  kindly  glance  of 
good-fellowship  at  Isabel  Done,  and  saw  to  it 
that  she  was  well  served. 

Isabel  looked  to  the  mind  of  John  Brooks, 
and  the  minds  of  many  others,  wonderfully 
fair  in  a  gown  of  canary-colored  silk,  cut  lowv 
enough  to  reveal  the  beautiful  nape  of  her 
neck.  After  supper  she  was  surrounded,  and 
especially  when  it  was  discovered  that  she  had 
a  sweet  voice,  and  could  sing  many  a  song  like 
"Mary  of  Argyle"  and  "Sweet  Afton,"  accom 
panying  herself  .upon  the  little  piano  inlaid 
with  mother-of-pearl.  Harry  sat  in  a  window- 
seat  with  Eliza  Brooks  and  listened,  and  talked 
between  the  songs,  and  always  the  talk  turned 
upon  the  fair  Lavinia  Creevy,  although  at  last 
Eliza  spoke  of  Isabel  Done.  "  How  the  young 
men  cluster  about  her!  It  is  like  bees  around 
a  cherry  blossom,"  said  she. 

Harry  gave  a  start  and  a  quick  frown,  and 
15 


THE   FAIR    LAVINIA    AND   OTHERS 

looked  at  the  cousin  whose  fair  head  gleamed 
dully  among  her  swarm  of  admiring  swains. 
Then  his  face  relaxed  as  Eliza  spoke  again  of 
the  fair  Lavinia.  "Rather,  I  should  say,  as 
young  men  flock  around  Lavinia  Creevy,"  said 
she,  and  was  upon  her  favorite  topic  again, 
while  Harry  listened  with  intense  interest,  al 
though  now  and  then  his  eyes  wandered  tow 
ards  Isabel  in  her  window  with  her  cluster  of 
admirers  around  her. 

After  Isabel  had  played  and  sung  again, 
Harry  turned  to  Eliza.  "Can  Miss  Creevy 
play  music?"  asked  he. 

"She  plays  the  harp  like  an  angel,"  replied 
Eliza,  fervently,  but  she  shrugged  her  shoulders 
a  little  and  her  eyes  wandered  towards  the 
other  young  men.  Presently  she  slipped  away 
— although  Harry  gazed  ruefully  after  her,  for 
he  wished  to  hear  more  of  the  fair  Lavinia — - 
and  sought  her  brother.  He  was  about  to  seek 
Isabel  Done,  but  he  turned  at  his  sister's  touch 
on  his  arm.  "John,  John,"  whispered  Eliza, 
"find  me  some  one  save  that  youth,  some  one 
who  has  not  so  much  fancy  and  sharper  eyes. 
I  have  not  worn  my  best  gown  for  nothing,  nor 
my  gold  chain.  I  will  not  be  looked  past  for 
Lavinia." 

John  laughed  again,  and  stayed,  with  a  touch 
on  the  elbow,  a  youth  who  was  on  his  way  to 

16 


THE    FAIR    LAVINIA 

Isabel.  "William  Preston,"  said  he,  and  the 
young  man  stopped,  although  with  a  passing 
annoyance.  However,  when  John  presented  him 
to  his  sister,  and  Eliza  made  a  pretty  courtesy, 
and  flashed  her  shrewd  bright  eyes  at  him,  and 
smiled,  he  was  not  at  all  ill  content,  and  fol 
lowed  her  to  another  window-seat,  and  quitted 
her  not  during  the  whole  evening,  nor  indeed 
for  long  for  his  whole  life,  since  they  were 
affianced  soon  after,  and  married  when  he  had 
completed  his  college  course. 

Harry  Fielding,  being  left  by  Eliza,  sat  a 
moment  by  himself  hesitating,  then  he  also 
sauntered  over  to  his  cousin,  and  sat  down 
upon  the  outskirts  of  the  throng.  He  could 
barely  see  the  dull  yellow  gleam  of  her  head, 
and  occasionally  the  soft  flash  of  her  blue  eyes, 
and  the  turn  of  her  cheek  as  she  spoke  in  an 
swer  to  some  question. 

John  Brooks  came  and  sat  beside  him,  but 
gradually  pushed  his  way  into  the  inner  circle. 
Harry  looked  after  him  with  a  frown.  For 
some  reason  he  did  not  like  it  that  John  Brooks 
should  so  openly  admire  his  cousin.  Presently, 
therefore,  he,  too,  almost  rudely,  forced  his 
own  way  to  Isabel,  and  spoke  to  her  with  al 
most  harsh  authority.  "  Isabel, "  said  he,  "  pray 
come  with  me.  I  have  something  to  say  to 
you." 


THE   FAIR   LAVINIA   AND   OTHERS 

But  Isabel  looked  at  him  gently  and  pleas 
antly,  and  answered  in  her  sweet,  low  voice 
with  a  question.  "What  is  it,  Harry?"  said 
she.  "Cannot  the  matter  wait  until  to-mor 
row?" 

"No,  it  must  be  to-night,"  replied  Harry. 
He  felt  his  face  flushing  before  the  half-indig 
nant,  half -wondering  eyes  of  his  mates,  but 
Isabel  rose  without  another  word  and  followed 
him  amid  the  crestfallen  young  men. 

"Whither  would  you  take  me,  Harry?" 
asked  she,  and  there  was  a  slight  reproach  in 
her  tone,  but  at  the  same  time  a  tender  cadence. 

"Come  out  and  walk  up  and  down  before 
the  house  with  me;  'tis  pleasant  moonlight," 
replied  Harry. 

"No,  that  I  cannot  do,"  said  Isabel,  firmly, 
"for  it  would  make  talk,  and  I  am  here  alone 
with  no  older  woman." 

"  But  you  are  as  my  sister,  Isabel." 

"I  am  not  your  sister,"  said  she,  curtly. 
"  Come  and  sit  with  me  in  yonder  window-seat, 
and  say  what  you  have  to  say  if  you  cannot 
wait  until  to-morrow." 

So  saying,  Isabel  settled  herself  with  a  soft 
flirt  of  canary-colored  skirts  in  a  window-seat, 
and  Harry  sat  beside  her,  but  was  silent  for  a 
moment.  Isabel  looked  away  from  him,  and 
spoke  first.  "Well,  what  is  this  so  important 

18 


THE   FAIR   LAVINIA 

matter,  Harry?"  said  she,  and  her  ivory  cheeks 
were  flushed  with  the  faintest  rose. 

Then  Harry  spoke,  not  even  looking  at  her, 
and  began  asking,  with  a  fine  assumption  of 
anxiety,  as  to  the  cause  of  his  father's  not 
coming. 

Isabel  tapped  the  carpet  with  her  little  foot, 
the  rose  faded  from  her  cheeks,  and  she  an 
swered  with  veiled  impatience.  "  Why,  Harry, 
I  have  told  you,"  said  she.  "The  Lone  Star 
from  the  Indies  has  but  just  come  on,  and  your 
father  had  reason  to  think  something  wrong 
with  the  cargo  and  could  not  leave.  Was  that 
why  you  brought  me  over  here,  with  such 
an  assumption  of  high  authority  before  your 
friends?  I  will  not  have  it  so  again." 

"  Nay,  but,  sister,"  said  Harry,  catching  at  a 
fold  of  her  canary  skirt,  which  she  immediate 
ly  released  gently  but  firmly,  "I  think  it  not 
entirely  proper  for  a  young  woman  to  be  so 
beset  with  young  men." 

"More  proper  than  to  be  beset  by  one,"  re 
plied  she,  with  a  toss  of  her  head ;  "but  you  can 
remain  and  protect  me,  Harry,  for,  faith!  I  see 
them  all  coming  this  way  again." 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  whole  bevy  of  ad 
mirers  were  near  ing  her  with  straggling  steps. 
Harry  frowned,  but  he  remained  and  listened 
to  what  he  esteemed  the  most  foolish  speeches 

19 


THE   FAIR   LAVINIA   AND   OTHERS 

from  his  friends.  However,  he  could  find  no 
fault  with  Isabel,  for  she  bore  herself  with  such 
modesty  that  it  would  have  seemed  prudery 
had  it  not  been  for  her  gentleness,  and  kind 
ness.  Still,  Harry  was  annoyed,  for  he  had 
wished  to  have  her  to  himself,  that  he  might 
confide  in  her  concerning  the  fair  Lavinia 
Creevy.  Isabel  had  a  power  of  grave  under 
standing  and  sympathy,  and  he  anticipated 
much  comfort  and  encouragement  from  her. 
He  had  no  thought  of  confiding  in  his  father 
until  all  was  settled.  A  stern  man  was  Harry's 
father,  Deacon  Cyrus  Fielding,  and  withal  had 
a  vein  of  whimsical  humor  and  sarcasm  which 
further  intimidated.  But  Isabel  was  different. 
He  could  look  to  her,  he  was  confident,  although 
she  seemed  somewhat  contrary  that  night,  for 
the  fullest  sympathy  and  assistance  when  once 
he  should  confide  his  secret  to  her. 

Harry  sat  beside  the  girl,  with  the  soft  canary- 
colored  folds  of  her  gown  touching  his  velvet 
knee,  and  thought  of  the  fair  Lavinia,  and  his 
thought  was  like  a  sacred  song.  His  whole 
being  was  filled  with  such  a  rapture  of  bliss 
that  he  became  glorified  in  his  own  realization 
of  himself.  He  knew  himself  as  the  lover  and 
worshipper  of  that  marvellous  Lavinia,  and  it 
was  as  if  he  had  never  known  himself  before. 
He  held  his  head  high.  He  listened  with  con- 

20 


THE   FAIR   LAVINIA 

tempt  to  the  talk  of  his  mates.  He  thought 
how  differently  he  would  talk  to  Her.  But 
when  Isabel  spoke  he  considered  that  no  doubt 
the  fair  Lavinia  had  a  voice  to  the  full  as  sweet 
and  low,  and  as  full  of  maidenly  dignity  as  hers, 
He  glanced  at  Isabel's  delicate  little  hands,  and 
knew  for  certain  that  Lavinia's  would  not  be 
one  whit  less  delicate  and  taper-fingered,  and 
he  thought  that  Lavinia,  who  doubtless  had 
a  fine  taste  for  the  adorning  of  such  a  lovely 
person  as  hers,  must  of  a  surety  possess  a  canary- 
colored  silk  gown.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he 
could  not  wait  until  he  returned  to  Boston  to 
confide  in  Isabel;  he  hoped  for  an  opportunity 
to  do  so  the  next  day.  But  not  one  moment 
could  he  secure  until  the  morning  after  their 
return,  when  his  father,  who  was  an  importer 
of  East  India  goods,  had  gone  to  his  place  of 
business,  and  Isabel  was  about  her  usual  morn 
ing  tasks,  one  of  which  was  the  cutting  of  a 
loaf  of  sugar  into  regular  blocks.  This  was 
never  intrusted  to  the  black  servants,  lest  they 
be  tempted  to  purloin  the  precious  sweet. 
Isabel  that  morning  was  cutting  the  sugar  in 
an  arbor  in  the  great  garden  behind  the  house 
upon  the  bank  of  the  Charles.  Harry  had  in 
veigled  her  there,  for  the  sake  of  privacy,  carry 
ing  the  sugar  and  the  implement  for  cutting. 
There  was  a  table  in  the  arbor,  and  a  bench 

21 


THE   FAIR   LAVINIA   AND    OTHERS 

running  around  the  sides.  Harry  sat  beside 
Isabel  on  this  bench,  and  she  began  her  task, 
and  the  shadows  of  rose-leaves,  so  young  that 
they  turned  silvery  in  the  wind,  were  over  them, 
and  the  sweetest  odors  of  flowers  were  all  about, 
and  the  singing  of  birds,  and  beneath  all  the 
racing  ripples  of  the  Charles,  which  gleamed 
in  the  distance  like  a  silver  ribbon  studded 
with  diamonds.  Harry  hesitated.  Isabel  cut 
the  sugar,  and  it  was  long  before  Harry  could 
make  up  his  mind  to  speak.  Finally  he  did, 
looking  away  from  Isabel. 

"I  have  something  which  I  have  long  wished 
to  say  to  you,"  he  began,  and  Isabel's  cheeks 
flamed  and  her  firm  hands  cutting  the  sugar 
trembled.  "It  is  about  a  wonderful  lady  of 
whom  John  Brooks  told  me,"  he  continued, 
and  Isabel's  cheeks  assumed  their  wonted  hue 
and  her  hands  were  as  steady  as  ever. 

"  Yes  ?"  she  said,  with  the  loveliest  and  sweet 
est  tone  of  interrogation,  just  as  Harry  had 
known  that  she  would  speak. 

Then  Harry  began  with  his  mad  raving  about 
the  fair  Lavinia :  that  maid  whom  he  had  never 
seen  except  through  another  man's  account  of 
her.  He  poured  out  his  love  for  this  unen- 
countered  divinity  with  no  restraint.  Not  a 
muscle  of  Isabel  Bone's  beautiful  mouth  twitch 
ed.  If  her  eyes  twinkled  with  the  absurdity  of 

22 


THE   FAIR   LAVINIA 

this  headlong  male  of  her  species  he  could  not 
see,  for  her  lids  concealed  them,  so  intent  she 
was  upon  her  sugar-cutting. 

Harry  raved  on  and  on.  His  cheeks  burned, 
his  blue  eyes  gleamed.  He  made  gestures  with 
his  nervous  hands.  "How  shall  I  get  to  see 
her?  For,  oh,  Isabel,  I  think  I  shall  die  if  I 
see  her  not  soon!"  finally  stammered  out  this 
foolish  youth.  And  with  that  down  on  his 
knees  he  went  and  hid  his  face  in  the  creamy 
folds  of  the  girl's  gown. 

Isabel  put  forth  one  of  her  hands  and  push 
ed  gently  but  firmly  his  head  away.  "Rise, 
Harry,"  said  she.  "It  is  over-familiarity,  and 
I  like  it  not." 

"But,  Isabel,  you  are  as  a  sister  to  me." 

"I  am  not  your  sister,  Harry." 

"  But  you  seem  like  one ;  and,  Isabel  dear, 
the  fondest  wish  of  my  heart  is  that  my  fair 
Lavinia  may  speak  like  you,  and  be  like  you 
in  character;  and,  Isabel,  you  must  always 
dwell  with  us,  for  I  could  never  bear  to  live 
apart  from  you,  in  such  brotherly  affection  I 
hold  you."  With  that  down  went  Harry's 
head  on  her  lap  again  and  he  was  half  weeping. 

Isabel  started  and  looked  at  the  head  in  her 
lap  with  a  curious  expression  of  mirth,  of  be 
wilderment,  and  anger.  "But,  Harry,"  said 
she,  "  it  does  not  seem  to  come  into  your  mind 
3  23 


THE   FAIR    LAVINIA   AND   OTHERS 

that  the  poor  Isabel  Done  may  also  have  her 
chance  to  wed  and  have  her  own  home." 

Then  it  was  Harry's  turn  to  start.  He  raised 
his  head  and  stared  at  her  with  such  consterna 
tion  that  it  was  all  she  could  do  to  avoid  down 
right  laughter.  "But  —  Isabel,"  stammered 
Harry,  "how  can  I  keep  house  without  you?" 

"  But  you  will  have  your  fair  Lavinia,  Harry." 

"But  I  have  always  had  you,  Isabel!" 

"That  is  the  very  reason  why  you  should 
have  me  not.  Why  should  I  be  debarred  from 
wedding,  and  remain  a  spinster  all  my  life? 
lAm  I  so  monstrous  to  see?" 

"No!  For,  oh,  Isabel,  I  hope  —  nay,  I  am 
sure — that  Lavinia  will  have  a  look  like  you, 
from  what  John  said.  But  her  hair  shines  like 
gold  and  her  cheeks  are  as  rosy  as  if  painted; 
and,  oh,  Isabel,  you  must  live  with  us!  But, 
oh,  I  have  never  seen  her  yet;  and,  oh,  Isabel, 
how  shall  I  see  her  ? — for  I  shall  die  if  I  do  not 
soon.  Such  a  longing  is  in  my  soul  that  you 
dream  not  what  it  is." 

"Remove  your  head,   Harry." 

"Why?  For  you  are  like  a  sister,  and  the 
[  hunger  for  Lavinia  is  less  sore  when  I  am  near 
1  you." 

"For  all  that,  remove  your  head,  for  I  like 
it  not,  and  it  is  simple  enough  for  you  to  see 
her. 

24 


THE   FAIR   LAVINIA 

Harry  raised  his  head  and  gazed  eagerly  at 
Isabel.  "How?" 

"Miss  Eliza  Brooks  invited  me  to  spend  a 
week  with  her  in  Whitfield  this  summer,  and 
she  said,  moreover,  that  her  brother  would  in 
vite  you,  Harry." 

"Oh,  Isabel!"  panted  Harry. 

"I  declined,"  said  Isabel      "Still—" 

"Oh,  Isabel,  write  and  tell  her  that  you  will 
go,  for  my  sake,"  pleaded  Harry,  "for  I  shall 
die  if  I  see  her  not  soon." 

Isabel  made  a  little  impatient  movement  of 
her  shoulders  as  she  cut  the  sugar.  "  People  do 
not  die  so  easily,"  said  she ;  "  but  if  your  heart  is 
so  set  upon  it,  I  will  write  to  Miss  Eliza  Brooks 
and  say  to  her  that  upon  reflection  I  accept 
her  kind  invitation  if  she  sees  fit  to  renew  it." 

That  very  afternoon  Harry  Fielding  took  a 
letter  folded  and  sealed  to  the  tavern  whence 
the  Whitfield  stage  started.  Then  in  due  time 
came  a  letter  from  Miss  Eliza  Brooks,  and  also 
one  from  John,  and  it  was  settled  that  in  mid 
summer  Harry  and  Isabel  should  spend  a  week 
in  Whitfield. 

Such  a  store  of  flowered  waistcoats  and  fine 
shirts  he  had  that  his  little  hair  trunk  could 
scarce!^  be  closed.  Isabel  had  made  many 
shirts  for  him  and  daintily  hemstitched  linen 
handkerchiefs. 

2S 


THE   FAIR   LAVINIA   AND   OTHERS 

One  day  Deacon  Fielding  came  upon  the  girl 
as  she  sat  sewing  for  Harry  in  the  arbor;  the 
young  man  himself,  who  had  been  mooning 
about  the  fair  Lavinia,  had  retreated  down  a 
box-alley  towards  the  Charles  at  the  sight  of 
his  approaching  father. 

"Why  not  take  a  few  stitches  for  yourself, 
Isabel?"  said  Deacon  Fielding. 

Isabel  smiled  and  took  another  dainty  stitch. 
"  I  have  all  I  require,  thanks  to  your  generosity, 
and  all  my  needle-work  was  finished  in  the 
spring,"  she  said. 

"Even  if  it  be  so,  better  stitch  for  yourself, 
or  for  some  man  who  has  eyes  in  his  head," 
Deacon  Fielding. 

Isabel  tried  to  laugh  gayly.  "Indeed,  sir, 
your  son  has  eyes,"  she  said. 

"Eyes  which  see  not,"  returned  Deacon 
Fielding,  with  a  glance  at  the  slender  form  of 
the  dreamer  disappearing  down  the  alley,  and 
another  of  acuteness  at  the  girl,  who  looked 
exceedingly  fair  to  him,  as  she  sat  sewing  with 
the  leaf -shadows  playing  over  her.  "  There  are 
those  who  see  and  yet  know  not  that  they  see, 
and  those  who  only  come  to  know  the  real 
through  dreams,"  he  added.  "Maybe  my  son 
is  of  that  kind." 

Isabel  blushed  until  the  soft  red  tinted  all 
the  ivory  of  her  face  and  neck.  She  bent  her 

26 


THE   FAIR   LAVINIA 

head  low,  but  there  was  a  mischievous  tilt  to 
her  mouth. 

The  next  day  she  and  Harry  started  for  Whit- 
field.  Harry  sat  beside  Isabel  in  the  stage 
and  dreamed  all  the  way;  but  once  he  gazed 
admiringly  at  his  cousin,  who  looked  wondrous 
fair  in  her  travelling-gown,  and  whispered  in 
her  ear.  "I  am  sure  that  my  Lavinia  will 
resemble  you,  Isabel,"  he  said,  and  Isabel 
laughed,  although  a  little  sadly. 

A  grievous  disappointment  was  before  Harry 
Fielding,  for  when  they  reached  Whitfield,  John 
Brooks  drew  him  aside  and  whispered  that 
Lavinia  Creevy  was  not  at  home.  "  I  know  it 
will  be  a  sad  disappointment  to  you,  Harry," 
John  said,  "but  it  was  only  this  morning  that 
she  went  by  stage  to  Sharon  to  nurse  an  aged 
great-aunt  who  lies  ill  of  a  fever  and  lives 
alone." 

"When  will  she  return?"  asked  Harry,  piti 
fully. 

"Not  while  you  are  here,  and  for  much 
longer,"  replied  John,  "for  her  aunt  has  a 
slow  fever." 

When  Harry  sat  down  to  the  well-spread 
supper-table  he  glanced  at  Isabel,  and  knew 
that  she  had  heard  the  sad  news.  He  received 
in  return  a  look  of  the  sweetest  commiseration, 
and  as  soon  as  she  could  draw  him  apart  after 

27 


THE   FAIR   LAVINIA    AND   OTHERS 

the  meal,  a  consoling  word.  '  'Tis  too  bad, 
Harry,"  said  she,  in  a  whisper. 

"I  had  so  counted  upon  it,  Isabel." 

"Do  not  despair,  for  I  will  invite  Eliza  and 
her  brother  and  your  Lavinia  to  visit  us." 

"Oh,  will  you  do  that,  Isabel,  and  before  I 
go  to  college?"  cried  Harry. 

"Hush!"  said  she.  "That  I  will.  Take 
heart,  Harry." 

But  even  that  fine  plan  miscarried,  for  Eliza 
and  John  indeed  paid  the  promised  visit  to 
Boston,  but  the  fair  Lavinia  did  not  come;  she 
was  so  wearied,  they  said,  with  the  nursing  of 
her  great-aunt,  who  had  died  of  the  fever,  and 
left  her  only  two  silver  teaspoons  and  a  mourn 
ing-ring,  that  she  was  unable  to  take  the  jour 
ney.  So  Harry  missed  yet  again  seeing  his 
fair  Lavinia,  and  in  his  distress  he  did  not 
notice  John  Brooks 's  infatuation  for  Isabel. 
Indeed,  Eliza  helped  to  conceal  the  fact,  for 
she  was  ever  at  Harry's  elbow  talking  about 
Lavinia  and  increasing  his  mad  imagination 
and  desire  for  her,  that  her  brother  might  have 
his  chance  to  talk  alone  with  Isabel  The 
afternoon  of  the  day  before  they  returned  to 
Whitfield,  John  Brooks,  coming  upon  Isabel  in 
the  arbor,  spoke  his  mind,  and  went  down  on 
his  knees  before  her  and  asked  her  to  marry 
him.  But  to  his  astonishment  she  answered 

28 


THE   FAIR   LAVINIA 

not  even  courteously,  but  turned  upon  him  in 
a  sudden  anger  strange  to  see  in  her, 

"Think  you  I  see  not  through  your  wiles, 
Master  John  Brooks?"  she  cried,  her  face 
flaming. 

John  Brooks  stammered  in  reply  that  he 
knew  not  what  she  meant. 

"  Well  you  know  what  I  mean,  you  and  your 
sister  Eliza,"  cried  Isabel.  "I  would  not  be 
discourteous  to  a  guest,  nor  treat  with  un 
graciousness  an  honest  man  who  does  me  the 
honor  to  ask  me  to  be  his  wife,  but  well  you 
know  what  I  mean,  and  Isabel  Done  weds  with 
no  man  who  stoops  to  subterfuge  to  win  her." 

"  What  mean — you  ?"  stammered  John  again. 
1  Tis  an  idle  question  you  ask,  since  you 
know,  but  if  you  will  have  it,  here  it  is :  there 
is  no  fair  Lavinia  Creevy,  and  you  but  invented 
the  tale  for  a  jest,  and  also — and  also — •"  Here 
Isabel  herself  stopped  short  and  paled,  and 
tears  stood  in  her  eyes. 

But  John  Brooks  gazed  at  her,  and  there 
was  nothing  save  honesty  in  his  prominent 
eyes.  "You  wrong  me,  Mistress  Done,"  he 
said,  fervently,  "  for  as  I  live  there  is  a  Lavinia 
Creevy,  and  she  lives  with  us,  as  I  have  said." 

Isabel's  pale  face  grew  rigid  as  the  dead. 
"Are  you  speaking  the  truth,  Master  Brooks?" 

"I  am  speaking  the  truth,"  declared  John 
29 


THE   FAIR   LAVINIA   AND   OTHERS 

Brooks,  "and  Lavinia  Creevy  lives,  and  I  have 
not  made  a  jest  of  Harry  by  pretending  her 
existence,  and — " 

"But  you  cannot  deny  that  you  have  so 
descanted  upon  her  fairness  for — a  purpose," 
said  Isabel;  but  she  stammered  again,  and 
again  the  color  stained  her  face. 

Brooks  regarded  her  curiously.  His  face 
fell.  "I  descanted  upon  the  fairness  of  La 
vinia  before  I  had  ever  seen  you,  Mistress 
Done,"  he  said,  "and  you  have  but  to  ask 
Harry.1' 

"I  need  not  ask  Harry,"  replied  Isabel,  in 
a  lifeless  tone,  and  again  she  was  pale.  "I 
have  no  interest  in  your  fair  Lavinia,  except, 
of  course,  pleasure  that  aught  so  wondrous  fair 
should  grace  the  earth.  Your  word  as  to  her 
existence  is  sufficient,  Master  Brooks;  but  as 
to  the  other  which  you  asked  of  me,  I  crave 
your  pardon  if  I  have  done  you  an  injustice, 
and  thank  you  humbly  for  the  honor,  but  your 
wife  I  cannot  be.  I  have  no  wish  to  wed.  I 
am  more  content  with  a  single  life  and  shall 
be  more  content." 

"Then  it  is — "  began  John  Brooks,  rising 
and  staring  at  her  with  a  sort  of  repressed  ¥ury. 
But  she  stopped  him. 

11  Not  another  word,"  said  she.  "  'Tis  naught 
to  you  nor  any  other  man  why  I  remain  unwed, 

30 


THE   FAIR   LAVINIA 

but  thee  I  should  wed  not  in  any  case."  Then 
she  was  on  her  feet  and  moving  away  with  a 
stately  tread. 

Harry  wondered  why  John  Brooks  was  so 
silent  that  night  and  unlike  himself;  but  when 
they  met  a  few  weeks  later  at  Harvard,  fair 
even  then,  he  was  the  same  as  ever,  ready  with 
a  jest  and  a  quibble  and  singing  still  the  praises 
of  the  fair  Lavinia.  Harry  stood  well  in  his 
class,  in  spite  of  the  ever-present  and  ever- 
ungratified  romance  of  his  heart.  He  grad 
uated  with  high  honors,  but  even  his  gradua 
tion  was  marred  of  its  glory,  because  of  the 
absence  of  the  fair  Lavinia,  on  whose  appear 
ance  he  had  counted  most  confidently,  having 
been  disappointed  in  meeting  her  through  all 
his  college  years. 

He  was  so  sadly  taken  aback  by  his  disap 
pointment  that  on  his  return  home  Isabel  Done 
was  at  her  wit's  end  to  comfort  him.  So  dis 
traught  was  he,  sighing  and  sleepless  and  com 
posing  poetry,  which  had  but  small  merit,  and 
threatening  to  relinquish  his  chosen  profession 
of  the  ministry  and  go  to  the  world's  end,  ship 
ping  before  the  mast  if  his  father  forbade  him 
to  go  on  business,  that  poor  Isabel  herself  was 
almost  distracted. 

One  night,  after  Harry  had  gone  to  his  room 
and  could  be  heard  pacing  overhead,  Deacon 


THE   FAIR   LAVINIA   AND   OTHERS 

Fielding  spoke  to  Isabel.  "  I  doubt  if  my  son 
has  a  call,"  he  said;  "so  restless  and  so  ill  at 
ease  he  seems  that  I  doubt  it  much." 

"Oh,  sir,"  Isabel  cried,  eagerly,  "I  doubt  it 
not  at  all." 

"I  have  questioned  him  well  concerning  his 
belief  in  the  doctrines,"  pursued  Deacon  Field 
ing,  "  and  so  has  Parson  Ackley  at  my  request, 
and  we  doubt.  He  seemeth  exceedingly  weak 
and  even  of  a  rebellious  spirit  concerning  some 
points.  He  has  too  many  romantic  irrtaginings 
and  too  little  of  the  steadfastness  of  faith  which 
regards  not  itself.  I  question  whether  it  be 
not  wise  to  give  up  the  dearest  wish  of  my 
heart  —  to  see  my  son  standing  in  the  pul 
pit  preaching  the  Word  to  the  ungodly — and 
send  him  to  the  Indies  for  sugar  and  molas 
ses." 

But  Isabel  pleaded  hard,  saying  that  she  had 
no  doubt  whatever  of  Harry's  calling,  and 
Deacon  Fielding  agreed  to  wait  a  few  days 
before  making  a  decision. 

The  next  morning  Isabel  proposed  to  Harry 
that  she  should  paint  a  miniature  of  the  fair 
Lavinia  according  to  his  and  her  conception  of 
her,  and  Harry  snatched  at  the  suggestion  as 
eagerly  as  a  child.  "Think  you  that  you  can 
do  it,  Isabel?"  he  asked.  "I  know  you  have 
a  pretty  skill  at  painting — as  pretty,  perhaps, 

32 


THE    FAIR   LAVINIA 

as  Lavinia  herself — but  think  you  that  you  can 
do  it?" 

Isabel  replied  that  she  could  but  try:  that 
she  had  heard  the  fair  maiden  described  so 
often  that  it  seemed  verily  to  her  as  if  she  were 
before  her  very  face. 

"And  so  it  seemeth  to  me!"  cried  Harry, 
wildly,  and  his  blue  eyes  blazed  wistfully  at 
Isabel's  face,  which  was  strangely  and  palely 
beautiful  as  ever. 

So  it  happened  that  in  some  three  days' 
time  Isabel  came  to  Harry  with  a  miniature, 
and  she  mentioned  not  how  she  had  painted 
it  standing  before  her  looking-glass,  and  her 
heart  beat  wildly  as  she  showed  it  to  him.  But 
Harry  snatched  at  it.  "Tis  she  herself!"  he 
cried,  and  gazed  with  rapture.  It  was  the 
miniature  of  a  great  beauty,  rosily  tinted  as  to 
cheeks  and  lips,  with  a  color  as  of  rose  on  pearl 
on  tip  of  chin,  and  eyes  like  blue  gems,  and 
hair  shining  like  gold.  "  'Tis  wonderful!"  cried 
Harry,  and  he  kissed  the  miniature  in  a  trans 
port,  while  Isabel's  face  was  at  once  distressed 
and  triumphant. 

The  miniature  was  painted  on  a  small  oval 
of  ivory,  and  Harry  had  it  set  in  gold  and  wore 
it  always  around  his  neck,  concealed  by  his 
linen,  which  Isabel  had  stitched,  and  it  was  such 
a  comfort  as  never  was  to  the  childlike  man. 

33 


THE   FAIR   LAVINIA   AND   OTHERS 

Straightway,  in  spite  of  another  disappoint 
ment  as  to  seeing  in  verity  the  fair  Lavinia — 
for  it  had  been  arranged  that  he  and  Isabel 
were  to  visit  Whitfield  during  the  summer,  and 
John  wrote  of  a  disastrous  fire  which  had  de 
stroyed  part  of  the  house,  and  the  spare  bed 
rooms  being  flooded  with  water  and  all  the 
plaster  and  paper  off — he  said  no  more  about 
the  Indies.  He  began  his  theological  course  in 
the  autumn  with  zealous  spirit.  The  posses 
sion  of  the  miniature  had  seemed  to  assure  him 
of  the  ultimate  possession  of  his  dream.  "  Sure 
am  I  now  that  my  prayers  will  be  answered, 
and  that  I  shall  at  last  see  in  the  flesh  my  fair 
Lavinia,"  he  said  to  Isabel  on  his  first  home 
coming.  Harry's  faith  remained  intact,  al 
though  he  was  always  disappointed  in  his  plans 
for  seeing  the  fair  Lavinia  during  his  stay  at 
the  theological  school.  Always  something  hap 
pened  to  prevent  it.  Still,  he  was  not  unhappy, 
V  -  and  he  stood  foremost  in  his  class.  It  seemed 
finally  as  if  his  whole  soul  became  beautified 
and  purified  by  the  non  -  possession  of  that 
which  he  adored,  and  he  was  kept  free  from 
all  the  temptations  which  might  have  beset 
his  youth  by  his  fine  imaginings.  He  obtained 
a  fine  pastorate  in  Boston,  upon  the  strength 
of  a  trial  sermon  full  of  doctrines  and  yet  red 
olent  of  angelic  love  and  faith  and  patience. 

34 


THE   FAIR   LAVINIA 

When  he  received  his  call  to  the  Boston 
church  and  had  accepted,  he  came  to  Isabel 
with  a  determined  expression  upon  his  face. 

"  Wilt  pack  my  portmanteau  for  me,  Isabel  ?" 
he  said. 

Isabel  looked  up  at  him  and  paled.  She  was 
sitting  at  work  in  the  south  parlor  of  the  Field 
ing  house.  There  were  two  windows  facing 
the  street,  and  between  them  stood  a  great 
century-plant. 

"Where  are  you  going?'*  asked  Isabel.  As 
she  spoke  she  looked  past  Harry  at  the  great 
century-plant,  and  it  seemed  to  her  that  there 
was  something  unusual  about  it.  Even  in  the 
midst  of  her  sudden  pain  and  distress  she  won 
dered  if  it  were  going  to  blossom. 

Harry  answered  with  a  firm  voice.  "I  am 
going  to  Whitfield,"  said  he.  "I  am  going  to 
Whitfield  to  see  Lavinia  Creevy." 

"Very  well,  Harry,  I  will  pack  your  port 
manteau,"  said  Isabel,  in  a  quiet  voice.  "God 
grant  that  you  find  her  this  time,  and  find  her 
all  you  have  wished  for  so  long." 

Harry  stared  at  her.  "What  is  the  matter, 
Isabel?"  he  said,  anxiously. 

"Nothing;  but  I  think  the  century-plant  is 
going  to  blossom,"  said  Isabel,  folding  her  work. 
Then  she  went  swiftly  out  of  the  room  to  pack 
Harry's  portmanteau,  and  it  was  not  half  an 

35 


THE   FAIR    LAVINIA  AND   OTHERS 

hour  before  she  bade  him  farewell  at  the  front 
door. 

Harry  took  her  hand,  which  wTas  soft  and 
cold,  and  then  he  looked  at  her  suddenly  with 
a  look  which  she  had  never  seen  before  in  his 
eyes.  "  After  all,"  he  said— 

"What,  Harry?" 

"After  all,  I  have  a  mind  not  to  go,  Isabel." 

"Nay,  go  you  must,  Harry,"  said  Isabel, 
"and  may  God  speed  you." 

When  she  told  Deacon  Fielding  upon  his 
return  that  night  whither  Harry  had  gone,  he 
frowned,  and  laughed,  and  frowned  again.  He 
had  overheard  Harry  in  some  of  his  wild  rav 
ings,  and  had  long  since  guessed  at  the  truth. 
"When  he  returns  from  his  wild-goose  chase 
perhaps  he  will  chase  swans,"  said  he. 

Isabel  blushed.  "  He  may  find  the  lady, 
and  find  her  all  that  has  been  said,"  she  re 
plied. 

"""""It  is  time  the  boy  grappled  with  truth  in 
stead  of  cobwebs,"  said  Deacon  Fielding,  stern 
ly.  "  He  has  his  call,  and  to  a  fine  pastorate, 
and  this  vaporing — " 

"It  may  not  be  vaporing." 

"God  grant  it  may  be,  for  I  would  have- 
Deacon  Fielding  stopped  his  speech  and  held 
out  his  Canton-china  cup  to  be  refilled. 

Harry  returned  the  next  night  from  Whit- 
36 


THE    FAIR    LAVINIA 

field.  Isabel,  sitting  with  her  work  at  the 
window,  saw  him  coming.  She  looked  strange 
ly  change^for  with  a  few  slight  touches  she 
had  altered  the  whole  character  of  her  own 
rare  beauty,  making  it  of  quite  another  type.  ; 
A  faint  touch  of  rouge  was  on  her  cheeks  and 
lips,  her  thick,  fair  eyebrows  were  pencilled, 
and  she  had  dusted  her  hair  with  gold-powder 
so  that  it  glittered  in  the  sunlight.  Before  her 
stood  the  century-plant,  and  upon  it  was  now 
quite  evident  a  bud  ready  to  burst  into  blos-^ 
som.  Isabel  gave  a  great  start  at  sight  of 
Harry  coming  up  the  street.  He  walked  brisk 
ly  and  his  head  was  up  and  he  did  not  look 
downcast.  Isabel  rose  and  went  out  of  the 
room  into  the  front  hall,  with  its  beautiful 
spiral  of  stair,  and  opened  the  front  door  and 
stood  waiting.  She  realized  a  faintness  as  of 
death  itself,  but  she  stood  still,  framed  in  the 
doorway,  knowing  that  the  happiness  of  her~~ 
whole  life  hung  upon  the  chance  of  the  next 
moment. 

Harry  approached  the  door  and  saw  the  girl 
standing  there,  and  a  great  wave  of  amazement 
overspread  his  face. 

"Well,"  said  Isabel,  "did  you  find  the  fair 
Lavinia,  Harry?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Harry,  still  staring  at  her 
as  if  in  a  dream,  "I  found  her." 

37 


THE    FAIR   LAVINIA  AND   OTHERS 

"And  is  she  so  fair?"  asked  Isabel.  She 
trembled  in  all  her  limbs,  but  her  voice  was 
quiet  and  firm. 

"Yes,  she  was  fair,"  replied  Harry.  "She 
is  a  great  beauty,  Isabel,  and  she  is  as  John 
said." 

"Then  it  was  not  a  jest?" 

"A  jest  at  first,  for  John  sought  to  amuse 
himself  with  me,  knowing  how  easily  my  heart 
might  be  turned  by  my  imagination,  but  after 
wards  no  jest,  for — for  John  loves  you,  Isabel, 
and  he  would  fain  have  had  me  turn  to  La- 
vinia,  for  he — he  feared — 

"Never  mind  what  he  feared,"  said  Isabel, 
in  a  dull  voice.  "  So  you  found  her  fair,  and 
all  the  miscarryings  of  plans  to  meet  her  were 
true?" 

"Yes,  they  were  true,  and — Miss  Creevy  is 
a  great  beauty,  such  as  the  world  has  seldom 
seen,  but — -Isabel — 

"But  what,  Harry?" 

"She  is  not  the  Lavinia  of  whom  I  have 
thought  all  these  years.  I  could  love  her  not, 
Isabel,  even  if  she  could  love  me."  Harry 
again  stared  at  Isabel,  and  now  upon  his  face 
was  a  strange  look  as  of  one  who  awakens. 
He  followed  her  into  the  parlor  like  a  man  in 
a  dream.  He  drew  the  miniature  from  his 
breast  and  gazed  at  it,  then  at  Isabel.  "It  is 

38 


THE   FAIR   LAVINIA 

your  face,"  he  whispered,  breathlessly.  "You 
are  the  fair  Lavinia,  Isabel." 

Isabel  gave  a  short  gasp.  She  was  trem 
bling  from  head  to  foot.  "  Wait,  wait,  Harry  1" 
she  panted,  and  ran  out  of  the  room.  When 
she  returned  the  rouge  was  washed  from  her 
fair  cheeks  and  the  gold-dust  was  shaken  from 
her  hair.  Then  she  stood  before  her  cousin, 
her  head  hanging.  "There  was  paint  on  my 
cheeks  and  there  was  gold  on  my  hair,  and  I 
am  not  the  fair  Lavinia,"  she  said,  pitifully, 
and  yet  with  a  certain  dignity. 

Harry  stood  regarding  her.  "Oh,  Isabel," 
he  said,  "it  was  your  miniature,  and  it  was 
you  whom  I  loved  and  I  knew  it  not.  I  sought 
her  afar,  and  all  the  time  she  sat  on  my  own 
hearthstone,  so  near  that  I  saw  her  not.  Can 
you  ever  forgive  me,  Isabel,  and  can  you  ever 
love  a  man  who  has  been  so  blind?" 

"I  would  that  I  were  the  fair  Lavinia,"  said 
Isabel. 

Then  Harry  caught  her  in  his  arms.  "You 
are  the  fair  Lavinia,"  said  he.  "You  are  for 
ever  until  death  do  us  part,  and  after  if  such 
be  the  will  of  God,  my  fair  Lavinia." 


AMARINA'S    ROSES 


** 


AMARINA'S   ROSES 


IN  the  deep  yard  in  front  of  and  in  the  deep 
garden  behind  the  old  Deering  house  was  a 
marvellous  growth  of  roses.  There  were  all  the 
old-fashioned  varieties.  There  were  the  sweet- 
brier,  the  hundred-leaved,  the  white,  the  deep 
red,  the  Scotch  blush  roses,  prairie-roses,  and 
rose-peonies  —  which  last  are,  of  course,  not 
roses,  but  may  reasonably  be  considered  gigantic 
symbolisms  of  them.  Amarina  herself  was  a 
marvel.  She  had  a  wonderful  blondness,  al 
though  she  tanned  instead  of  freckled  in  the  sun. 
But  there  was  something  about  that  soft 
creaminess  of  tint  which  her  skin — as  that  of  her 
foremothers'  had  done — assumed  in  the  summer 
time  which  had  a  beauty  beyond  that  of  mere 
pink  and  pearl.  Through  this  creamy  tint  was 
always  to  be  seen  on  the  cheeks  a  flush  of  rose ; 
and  her  eyes,  which  were  brown,  shaded  into  the 
cream,  and  her  lips  were  crimson.  There  had 
been  many  intermarriages  in  the  Deering 

43 


THE   FAIR   LAVINIA  AND    OTHERS 

family.  Amarina's  own  parents  had  been  dis 
tantly  related,  but  she  was  an  instance  of  en 
durance  instead  of  degeneration.  She  was  as 
perfect  as  one  of  the  roses  in  her  garden,  which 
had  come  of  the  reproduction  of  many  genera 
tions  of  bloom.  Amarina  had  outlived  her 
immediate  family,  and  lived  alone  with  an  aged 
great-aunt  and  two  old  servants.  She  was 
nearly  thirty,  and  had  never  had  a  lover.  But 
it  was  not  held  in  the  least  to  Amarina  Deering's 
discredit  that  she  remained  single,  for  it  was 
universally  conceded  that  there  was  nobody  in 
the  village  who  could  have  aspired  to  her  hand 
without  presumption.  She  was  set  up  on  a 
pedestal  like  some  goddess,  and  if  she  realized 
a  loneliness  thereon  nobody  knew  it,  for  she 
had  the  pride  of  her  family. 

Amarina's  great-aunt  was  very  old,  but  she 
seemed  to  have  attained  a  pause  of  longevity 
at  the  summit  of  her  hill  of  years,  and  time  now 
seemed  to  make  no  further  impression  upon 
her.  She  was  dim  -  sighted,  dim  of  compre 
hension,  and  very  hard  of  hearing,  as  she  had 
been  for  years;  she  had  never  been  married. 
Living  with  Amarina's  great-aunt  Margaret 
Deering  was  scarcely  like  living  with  an  ani 
mated  person,  but  the  girl  was  fond  of  her,  and 
tended  her  with  the  greatest  care. 

Amarina  at  almost  thirty  was  to  the  full  as 
44 


AMARINA'S    ROSES 

lovely  as  at  eighteen.  People  said  that  she  did 
not  change  in  the  least.  And  in  truth  there  was 
little  difference.  She  looked  as  truly  the  same 
as  the  new  roses  which  appeared  blooming  on 
the  perennial  stalks  of  the  old  ones  in  the  garden 
every  June. 

However,  when  Amarina  neared  thirty  she 
began  to  think  of  putting  on  caps. 

All  women,  as  a  rule,  of  that  age  wore  caps. 
One  summer  afternoon  she  got  out  some  fine 
old  lace  and  muslin,  and  sat  on  the  porch  be 
side  her  great-aunt  fashioning  a  cap.  The  old 
woman  cast  a  glance  at  the  filmy  stuff  which 
Amarina  was  manipulating. 

Amarina  answered  the  look  as  she  would  have 
answered  a  question;  she  had  come  to  under 
stand  her  aunt's  silences  as  she  would  have 
understood  speech.  ''I  am  getting  near  thirty, 
Aunt  Margaret,"  said  she,  ''and  I  thought  I 
might  as  well  be  getting  some  caps  ready." 
She  laughed  as  she  said  it — and  there  was  not 
the  slightest  bitterness  in  her  laugh,  which  was 
that  of  one  amused  with  Time  while  she  makes 
concessions  to  him.  The  old  woman  looked 
away  from  Amarina  and  the  cap,  and  her  eyes 
took  on  an  odd  blank  of  remembrance. 

Amarina  continued  to  gather  the  lace  and  sew 
it  to  the  muslin.  She  wore  that  day  a  lemon- 
colored  muslin  gown,  and  her  fair  hair  fell  in 

45 


THE    FAIR   LAVINIA  AND   OTHERS 

curls  all  over  her  neck  and  shoulders.  Out  of 
them  looked  her  round  face,  slightly  browned 
by  the  sun,  with  the  rose-flush  on  the  cheeks, 
and  the  brown  eyes  which  still  regarded  the 
world  and  life  itself  with  the  surprise  and  trust 
of  youth. 

Suddenly  a  man  entered  the  gate  at  the  end 
of  the  yard  and  came  up  the  path  between  the 
rose-bushes  and  rose-peonies  which  bordered  it. 
Amarina  glanced  from  her  work  at  him  with  a 
gentle  surprise.  The  old  aunt  did  not  seem  to 
see  him  at  all.  She  was  trying  to  recall  her  own 
first  cap,  which  she  had  donned  at  thirty. 

The  man  approached  the  porch;  he  lifted  his 
hat  and  spoke  quite  familiarly,  with  a  pleasant, 
almost  mischievous,  laugh.  "All  the  pink  roses 
are  in  bloom  in  the  yard,"  said  he,  "but  the  one 
yellow  one  blooms  on  the  porch." 

Amarina  arose  and  confronted  him  with  a 
slight  hauteur.  "  Sir  ?"  said  she. 

"Then  you  have  forgotten  me,"  said  the 
stranger.  "Well,  I  will  forgive  you;  there  are 
many  bees,  but  only  one  rose." 

"I  will  admit  that  you  have  the  advantage 
of  me,  sir,"  Amarina  said  in  her  sweet,  slightly 
formal  manner. 

"Well,  why  should  you  remember?"  replied 
the  man.  "It  was  ten  years  ago  that  we  met, 
but  the  years  have  flown  over  your  head  like 

46 


AMARINA'S   ROSES 

a  flock  of  humming  -  birds.  I  am  Alonzo 
Fair  water." 

A  flash  of  recognition  came  into  Amarina 's 
eyes.  Alonzo  Fair  water  was  the  distant  cousin 
of  her  one  girl  friend,  Alicia  Day,  who  lived 
three  miles  away  in  a  tiny  suburb  of  the  village, 
which  was  named  for  her  family — "  Day  Corner. " 
It  was  seldom  that  Amarina  saw  Alicia,  since 
she  herself  was  kept  at  home  by  the  care  of  her 
aged  aunt,  and  Alicia  was  away  the  greater  part 
of  the  year  in  the  city.  She  was  a  beauty  and  a 
belle.  Some  called  her  handsomer  than  Ama 
rina,  although  she  too  had  never  married. 

Amarina  courtesied,  and  motioned  Alonzo 
Fair  water  to  a  chair.  "Yes,"  she  said,  "I  beg 
your  pardon.  I  remember  you  now;  but  ten 
years  is  a  long  time." 

"Not  for  you,"  replied  Alonzo  Fairwater, 
seating  himself,  with  eyes  of  open  admiration 
upon  the  girl's  face. 

"You  are  visiting  at  Alicia's?"  said  Amarina, 
again  with  a  slightly  haughty  air. 

The  young  man  explained  his  presence  with 
an  odd  eagerness.  It  seemed  that  he  was  out 
of  health,  and  country  air  had  been  recom 
mended,  and  he  had  come  on  a  visit  to  the  Day 
homestead.  Alicia  was  away,  as  Amarina 
knew,  but  Alonzo  said  that  she  was  to  return  the 
next  day.  He  touched  very  lightly  upon  the 

47 


THE   FAIR   LAVINIA   AND   OTHERS 

subject  of  Alicia,  but  said  a  great  deal  about 
the  beauty  of  the  village  and  the  sweetness  and 
health-giving  properties  of  the  air. 

As  the  two  sat  there,  with  the  silent  great- 
aunt  in  the  background,  a  young  man  crossed 
the  front  yard  with  a  rake  over  his  shoulder. 
He  cast  one  glance,  which  was  almost  surly, 
towards  the  group  on  the  porch,  and  only  dipped 
his  head  slightly  in  response  to  Amarina 's 
salutation,  which  was  as  marked  as  if  he 
had  been  any  gentleman  coming  to  call  upon 
her. 

"Who  is  that  sulky  swain?"  asked  Alonzo 
Fairwater,  in  a  voice  so  loud  that  the  young 
man  must  have  heard ;  but  he  continued  without 
turning  his  head,  and  was  soon  seen  moving 
about,  tossing  up  the  newly  mown  hay  in  an 
adjoining  field. 

Amarina  colored.  "He  is  one  of  my  neigh 
bors,  Mr.  Thomas  Hetherly,  and  he  makes  hay 
on  my  land  on  shares,"  she  replied. 

Fairwater  gazed  with  a  sort  of  supercilious 
amusement  at  the  young  man  moving  in  a  green 
and  rosy  foam  of  clover  and  timothy.  "It  is 
very  early  to  make  hay,  is  it  not  ?"  he  said. 

"Very  early,"  replied  Amarina.  Then 
Martha,  the  wife  of  old  Jacob,  the  two  being 
the  servants  of  the  Deerings,  came  out  with  a 
tray  on  which  were  a  squat  silver  tea-service 

48 


AMARINA'S   ROSES 

and  a  plate  of  little  cakes ;  and  nothing  more  was 
said  about  Thomas  Hetherly. 

However,  after  Alonzo  Fairwater  had  taken 
his  leave  and  the  sun  was  low,  Amarina  gathered 
up  daintily  her  lemon-colored  skirts  and  cross 
ed  the  yard,  and  approached  the  haymaker. 
Thomas  Hetherly  stopped  when  he  saw  her,  and 
waited  with  a  sort  of  dignity  which  sat  well  upon 
him ;  for,  in  spite  of  his  working-clothes  and  his 
humble  task,  he  was  a  masterly  looking  fellow 
of  great  height,  and  with  a  handsome  face  so 
strong  as  to  be  almost  stern. 

Amarina  smiled  pleasantly,  albeit  a  little 
timidly,  up  at  him  from  the  cloud  of  her  yellow 
curls.  "  How  do  you  get  on  with  the  hay,  Mr. 
Hetherly?"  asked  she. 

"Very  well,  Miss  Deering,  considering  the 
size  of  the  field,," 

"It  is  good  hay  weather,"  said  Amarina. 

"Very  good." 

Thomas's  replies  were  almost  curt.  He 
looked  straight  at  her  beautiful  face  with  a  sort 
of  defiance — the  defiance  of  the  original  man 
for  the  wiles  of  the  woman.  - 

Amarina  turned  away,  then  she  hesitated. 
"  That  gentleman  who  was  sitting  on  the  porch 
is  Alonzo  Fa  rwater,"  said  she. 

"Yes;  I  knew  him.  I  saw  him  years  ago," 
replied  Hetherly,  quietly. 

49 


THE  FAIR   LAVINIA   AND   OTHERS 

Amarina  hesitated  still.  A  deep  pink  over 
spread  the  cream  of  her  cheeks.  "  I  know  you 
must  have  overheard  what  he  said,"  she  faltered. 
"  I  am  sure  he  meant  no  harm,  and  I  hope  you 
do  not  think — 

Hetherly  turned  from  her  and  gave  the  hay  a 
little  toss.  "I  think  nothing  at  all  about  it," 
he  replied. 

"I  am  very  glad,"  said  Amarina,  with  a 
curious  meekness,  for  she  had  a  proud  soul,  and 
she  had  met,  in  a  sense,  with  a  repulse. 

"I  did  not  intend  to  be  surly  towards  you," 
said  Thomas  Hetherly,  tossing  the  hay  steadily, 
"and  as  for  anything  else,  I  never  store  in  my 
mind  what  was  not  meant  for  my  ears." 

"I  am  very  glad,"  said  Amarina  again,  and 
still  with  that  curious  meekness.  Then  she  was 
gone,  skimming  the  stubbed  surface  of  the  field 
in  her  lemon  -  colored  gown  as  lightly  as  a 
butterfly,  and  Thomas  Hetherly  continued  his 
work  until  the  sun  was  below  the  horizon  and 
the  stars  were  shining;  then  he  went  home. 
He  was  poor  and  lived  alone.  All  his  life  until 
the  last  year  he  had  been  burdened  with  the 
care  of  his  father,  who  had  suffered  with  a 
terrible  incurable  disease,  and  who  required  not 
only  great  care,  but  great  expense.  When  he 
died,  the  small  Hetherly  estate  was  heavily  en 
cumbered,  and  Thomas  was  working  to  clear  it. 


AMARINA'S   ROSES 

When  he  reached  home  he  built  his  kitchen  fire, 
set  the  kettle  on,  then  washed  himself  and 
changed  his  clothes.  He  did  so  on  account  of 
Amarina  Deering's  daintiness,  and  because  he 
could  not  bear  to  compare  himself  to  so  much 
disadvantage  with  the  fine  gentleman  who  had 
sat  on  the  porch  with  her  that  afternoon.  After 
his  simple  supper  he  sat  down  on  his  front  door 
step,  and  looked  across  the  street  at  the  old 
Deering  house. 

It  was  a  strange  old  pile,  a  conglomeration  re 
sulting  from  the  tastes  and  needs  of  succeeding 
generations  of  one  race.  Nearly  everybody  who 
had  dwelt  in  it,  since  the  original  founder, 
Amarina 's  great-grandfather,  had  added  some 
thing  to  it.  It  was  a  multiplication  of  the  first 
simple  theme,  a  house  of  eight  square  rooms  on 
two  floors.  Now  there  were  ells  and  outbuild 
ings,  and  rooms  opening  from  one  another  by 
unexpected  steps,  and  the  stairs  and  doors  were 
in  such  numbers  that  they  were  a  matter  of  jest 
in  the  village.  The  whole  was  an  immense 
aggregation  of  the  tastes  and  needs  of  different 
individuals  of  one  race,  consolidated  in  brick 
and  wood  and  plaster.  There  was,  however,  a 
singular  unanimity  about  the  house  in  the  midst 
of  variety.  It  was,  in  reality,  harmonious 
architecture,  although  not  of  any  known  school. 
And  the  deep  front  yard  and  garden  in  the  rear, 

51 


THE   FAIR   LAVINIA  AND  OTHERS 

with  their  rank  growths  of  roses,  carried  the 
harmony  further  still,  and  Amarina,  the  true 
daughter  of  the  race,  raised  it  to  the  utmost 
pitch.  Amarina 's  very  name  illustrated  curi- 

'  ously  the  tendency  of  her  family  to  compound 
and  conserve.  Her  grandmother's  name  had 
been  Amanda,  her  mother's  Marina,  hers  was 
Amarina.  There  had  been  no  strictly  new  name 
in  the  family  for  generations,  and  there  had 
been  hardly  one  new  thing  in  the  house. 

Alonzo  Fairwater,  who  came  often,  found  a 
charm  in  this  conservation  of  the  graceful  old. 
He  viewed  the  furniture :  chairs  with  harp  backs, 
the  spindle-legged  piano,  the  gilded  candle 
sticks,  dangling  with  prisms,  on  the  mantel ;  the 
pictures,  darkly  rich  and  mysterious  old  paint 
ings  in  heavy  dull  frames,  steel-engravings  of 
ultra-delicacy,  and  pencil  drawings  made  by 
Amarina 's  ancestresses — and  all  fascinated  the 
man,  who  had  an  esthetic  nature.  Nothing 
which  had  ever  entered  that  old  house,  except 
the  people  who  had  dwelt  therein,  had  ever  de 
parted  from  it.  And  yet  they  had  not  been  a 
niggardly  race — not  with  money;  they  had  al 
ways  been  free  with  that.  It  was  only  with 
that  which  money  had  bought  that  they  had 
been  chary.  It  was  as  if  their  possessions  had 

x^  acquired  for  them  a  worth  beyond  their  in 
trinsic  ones,  and  became  a  part  of  their  in- 

52 


AMARINA'S   ROSES 

dividtiality.  Amarina's  great -aunt  Margaret 
Deering,  dull  as  she  was,  would  have  aroused  to 
enough  life  to  break  her  heart  had  she  been  de 
prived  of  aught  of  her  old  store,  although  noth 
ing  seemed  very  clearly  present  with  her  in  the 
aged  dimness  of  her  mind. 

Alonzo  Fairwater  had  called  upon  Amarina 
many  times  before  she  fairly  remembered  the 
first  cap  which  she  had  donned  when  she  passed 
out  of  her  girlhood.  Then  suddenly,  one  even 
ing,  when  she  and  Amarina  and  Alonzo  were  all 
in  the  sitting-room,  and  Amarina  was  embroid 
ering  a  handkerchief  by  the  light  of  a  candle 
in  a  tall  silver  stick,  and  Alonzo  sat  near,  watch 
ing  her  with  half -bold,  half -furtive  admiration, 
the  old  woman  remembered,  and  when  she  did 
remember,  the  tears  rolled  down  her  withered 
cheeks  as  if  she  had  been  a  child. 

Amarina  looked  up  and  saw  the  tears,  and, 
dropping  her  work,  ran  to  her.  "Why,  dear 
Aunt  Margaret,"  said  she,  "what  is  the  mat 
ter?"  i 

"It  had  three  rows  of  thread  lace,  and  there J 
was  a  bow  of  lilac  ribbon,"   sobbed  the  old 
woman. 

Alonzo  stared,  and  the  thought  came  to  him 
that  the  old  soul  had  clean  lost  her  wits, 
but  Amarina  spoke  soothingly.  "What  was 
trimmed  with  three  rows  of  thread  lace  and  a 

53 


THE   FAIR   LAVINIA   AND   OTHERS 

bow  of  lilac  ribbon,  dear  aunt?"  said  she;  "and 
why  do  you  weep  about  it?" 

''Three  rows  of  thread  lace  and  a  bow  of 
lilac  ribbon,"  repeated  the  old  aunt,  and  she 
sobbed  aloud. 

"On  what,  dear  aunt?" 

"  On  my  cap,  my  first  cap  that  I  wore  when 
I  was  turned  thirty,"  wailed  the  old  woman. 

Alonzo  Fairwater  turned  his  face  aside  and 
laughed  a  little,  but  Amarina  regarded  her  aunt 
with  entire  sympathy.  "Yes,  I  understand, 
dear  Aunt  Margaret,  now,"  said  she,  and  indeed 
she  did  understand  as  no  one  of  alien  blood 
could  have  understood. 

"And  the  lace  dropped  to  pieces,  although  I 
J  mended  it  carefully,  and  the  lilac  ribbon  bow 
faded,  and  it  is  all  gone,"  sobbed  old  Margaret 
Deering,  and  she  wept  as  if  at  the  memory  of 
her  dead  mother  or  her  dead  sister  or  her  dead 
self.  Amarina  soothed  her,  Alonzo  Fairwater 
could  not  help  thinking,  like  an  angel.  She 
called  Martha,  and  the  old  woman  was  led  off 
and  put  tenderly  to  bed,  after  she  had  been 
given  a  cup  of  spiced  cordial. 

Alonzo  Fairwater  rose.  "  It  would  be  worth 
while  being  old  and  feeble  if  one  could  have 
such  care  as  yours,"  he  said,  and  his  voice 
trembled  a  little,  but  Amarina  only  laughed. 
She  accompanied  him  to  the  door,  and  they 

54 


HE    SEIZED    AMARINA  S    HAND    AND    KISSED    IT 


AMARINA'S    ROSES 

were  standing  in  a  stream  of  moonlight  which 
poured  into  the  old  hall,  when  suddenly  he  cut 
his  speech  short — it  was  of  the  probable  weath 
er  the  next  day — and  seized  Amarina 's  hand 
and  kissed  it.  "Oh,  Amarina!"  he  sighed  out, 
but  she  drew  back. 

"Sir!"  she  said. 

Alonzo    Fairwater   moved    away   from   her 
farther   into  the   stream  of  silver  moonlight. 
"Forgive  me,  T  beg  you,"  he  murmured,  and 
went  quickly  down  the  path  between  the  rose-  v 
bushes,  which  were  then  past  their  bloom. 

Amarina  when  she  was  in  her  own  chamber 
that  night  reflected.  She  had  no  doubt  that 
Alonzo  Fairwater  loved  her,  that  what  he  had 
said  and  done  was  equivalent  to  a  declaration 
of  love,  and  that  he  would  follow  it  up  by  more 
precise  avowals  on  the  first  opportunity.  She 
had  no  doubt,  but  no  rapture.  She  considered 
the  matter  gravely,  its  advantages  and  disad 
vantages.  While  she  was  doing  so,  lying  in 
her  little  white  bed,  stiffened  with  strenuous 
thought,  plight  shone  in  her  eyes  from  a  win 
dow  of  the  Uetherly  house  opposite.  Then  di 
rectly  her  heart  leaped  to  an  understanding  of\j 
itself,  and  at  the  same  time  to  indignation  with 
herself.  She  understood  that  if  the  question 
had  been  of  marriage  with  Thomas  Hetherly, 
such  careful  weighing  of  consequences  would 
5  55 


THE    FAIR   LAVINIA  AND   OTHERS 

have  been  almost  out  of  her  power,  but  she  was 
merciless  with  herself  because  of  it.  In  the 
first  place,  Thomas  Hetherly  had  manifested 
no  inclination  to  marry  her,  and  she  accused 
herself  of  indelicacy  at  the  imagination  of  such 
a  thing.  In  the  second  place,  the  women  of  her 
race  had  never  married  a  simple,  poor  man  like 
him,  and  the  conservatism  which  was  born  with 
her  held  her  like  chain  armor.  She  was  a  creat 
ure  of  an  almost  majestic  maidenliness.  She 
pressed  back  the  involuntary  leap  of  her  heart, 
.  and  reflected  upon  the  subject  of  marriage  with 
"«  Alonzo,  as  if  it  had  been  an  embroidery  pat 
tern.  Although  she  had  a  keen  mind  and  a 
vivid  imagination,  the  real  significance  of  mar 
riage  itself,  except  as  a  matter  of  custom  for 
which  she  had  hereditary  instincts,  and  an  es 
tate  which  it  became  a  woman  to  enter,  and 
which  was  held  somewhat  to  her  disparage 
ment  to  miss,  was  scarcely  present  to  her  con 
sideration  at  all. 

Amarina  fully  expected  that  Alonzo  Fair- 
water  would  present  himself  the  next  day  and 
make  a  definite  proposal  for  her  hand ;  the  dig 
nity  of  the  Deering  women  had  never  been 
affronted  with  a  scene  like  that  of  the  night 
before  except  with  such  a  sequel.  All  the  time 
she  reflected,  but  was  not  able  to  make  up  her 
mind  concerning  her  answer,  for,  whether  she 

56 


AMARINA'S   ROSES 


would  or  not,  tJ^-^Jeam^j^gmtjgS^Ufi  of 
Thomas  Hetherly's  seemed  to  send  her  thoughts 
adrift,  and  the  image  of  him  drove  the  image 
of  the  other  man  from  her  heart. 

But  the  next  afternoon,  instead  of  Alonzo, 
Alicia  Day  came  in  the  Day  coach,  and  she  was 
out  in  a  swirl  of  purple  and  gold-shot  silk,  for 
she  was  of  a  dark  and  splendid  beauty  and  fine 
raiment  became  her,  and  she  delighted  in  it. 
A  bird-of  -paradise  plume  curled  around  her 
hat,  and  her  wrought  veil  of  yellow  lace  drifted 
to  her  waist  before  her  lovely  face  as  she  ran 
up  the  path  between  the  rose-bushes  to  Ama- 
rina  hastening  to  meet  her.  "Oh,  Amarina!" 
sighed  Alicia. 

"  Dearest  Alicia!"  said  Amarina,  and  she  held 
her  in  her  arms  and  kissed  her  fondly.  Then 
she  led  Alicia  into  the  house  and  the  best  par 
lor.  Alicia  sank  into  a  corner  of  the  sofa,  draw 
ing  Amarina  down  beside  her.  "  Oh  ,  Amarina  !  '  ' 
she  sighed  again,  and  the  brilliant  flush  upon 
her  cheeks  deepened,  and  her  dark  eyes  shone 
with  tears. 

Amarina  laughed.  "This  is  the  second  time 
you  have  said  that,  and  what  ails  you,  sweet 
heart?"  said  she. 

Alicia  glanced  up  at  Amarina  in  a  sweet  con- 
fusion,  like  a  rose  in  a  gale  of  wind.  "  I  know 
it,"  said  she.  "I  am  silly  as  I  never  thought 

57 


THE   FAIR   LAVINIA  AND  OTHERS 

Alicia  Day  could  be,  but  I  am  silly  because  I 
am  happy  as  Alicia  Day  never  expected  to  be 
happy,  dear."  Alicia  had  tossed  back  her  long 
veil,  and  her  glowing,  beautiful  face  was  framed 
by  the  floating  lace  flowers.  Her  blush  mount 
ed  to  the  soft  black  curls  on  her  forehead.  "  Can 
not  you  guess  what  makes  me  so  happy,  dear?" 
she  whispered. 

After  all,  Amarina,  in  spite  of  her  almost 
frozen  maidenliness,  was  a  woman.  A  blush 
mounted  high  on  her  own  cheeks,  and  she  cast 
down  her  brown  eyes.  "You  are  betrothed," 
she  whispered. 

Alicia  hid  her  face  on  her  friend's  shoulder. 
"Yes,"  said  she,  "I  am  betrothed  for  some 
months.  Next  year  at  this  time  I  shall  be 
wed,  and  you  shall  be  bridesmaid,  Amarina." 

"Who  is  he,  sweetheart?"  asked  Amarina. 

Alicia  laughed  with  utter  exultation  of  bliss. 
"Who  could  he  be  but  Alonzo  Fairwater?"  said 
she.  "Oh,  Amarina,  I  have  loved  him  ever 
since  I  was  a  child,  and  thought  there  was  no 
one  like  him,  and  something  came  betwixt  us, 
and  my  heart  broke,  but  now  it  is  all  over,  and 
we  love  each  other  and  are  to  be  wed.  But 
why  do  you  say  nothing,  Amarina?" 

"I  wish  you  joy,  sweetheart,"  replied  the 
other  girl,  and  her  voice  was  strange,  but  Alicia 
in  her  excitement  did  not  notice  it. 

58 


AMARINA'S   ROSES 

"Joy  I  shall  have,  pressed  down  and  run 
ning  over,"  said  she.  "There  never  was  a  man 
like  him;  I  thought  you  might  guess,  dear, 
since  you  knew  he  was  here,  for  he  has  told  me 
that  he  paid  his  respects  to  you,  since  you  were 
my  friend,  although  he  has  been  pining  for  my 
return.  I  was  obliged  to  remain  in  Boston  for 
Elizabeth  Ware's  wedding.  But  how  little  you 
say,  Amarina!" 

Amarina  roused  herself,  and  she  spoke  fer 
vently,  although  dissimulation  was  new  to  her. 
"I  hope  you  will  be  very  happy,  dear,"  she 
said. 

"Happy!"  repeated  Alicia.  "Oh,  Amarina, 
did  you  ever  see  a  man  to  equal  Alonzo?" 

"Not  in  your  eyes,  dear,"  replied  Amarina, 
evasively. 

Then  Alicia  laughed  gayly.  "I  verily  be 
lieve  that  you  have  seen  some  one  who  looks  in 
your  eyes  as  Alonzo  does  in  mine,"  said  she. 
"Own  up  to  me,  sweet." 

But  Amarina  paled  and  sobered,  and  Alicia 
could  get  nothing  from  her.  That  evening, 
when  she  and  Alonzo  were  sitting  alone,  she 
said  that  she  suspected  that  Amarina  had  her 
self  lost  her  heart  to  some  one,  and  that  she 
hoped  that  such  happiness  as  she  herself  had 
might  come  to  her,  for  she  had  but  a  dull  life 
alone  with  her  old  aunt.  They  were  sitting 

59 


THE   FAIR   LAVINIA  AND   OTHERS 

in  the  moonlight,  and  Alicia  could  not  see  the 
expression  on  Alonzo's  face,  but  it  was  one  of 
both  pain  and  triumph.  "I  do  not  see  who 
he  can  be,"  said  Alicia,  reflectively;  "there  is 
no  one  here  for  her.  Do  you  not  think  her 
very  beautiful  from  what  little  you  have  seen 
of  her,  Alonzo?" 

"Very  beautiful,"  replied  Alonzo,  with  a 
slight  tremor  in  his  voice,  which  Alicia  did  not 
notice.  She  had  the  entire  trust  and  con 
fidence  of  a  great  beauty  who  had  always  seen 
men  at  her  feet. 

The  next  afternoon,  when  Amarina  was  seen 
driving  up  with  her  aunt  in  the  old  Deering 
coach,  Alonzo  Fairwater,  who  had  always  es 
teemed  himself  brave  as  men  go,  did  what  some 
might  have  considered  a  cowardly  thing.  He 
stole  softly  down  the  back  stairs,  and  across 
the  garden  into  a  thick  wood  behind  it.  There 
fore,  when  Alicia  sent  to  call  him,  he  was  not  to 
be  found.  "  I  thought  Alonzo  was  in  his  room, " 
said  Alicia,  "but  he  must  have  gone  out." 

Amarina  murmured  that  she  was  sorry  to 
miss  the  pleasure,  but  her  beautiful  lips  curled 
with  covert  scorn.  She  was  thankful  for  once 
for  her  aunt's  dulness,  which  prevented  her 
from  any  betrayal  of  Alonzo's  frequent  calls 
upon  herself. 

It  was  not  long  after  that  that  Alicia  and 
60 


AMARINA'S   ROSES 

her  mother  went  away  to  visit  the  Fairwater 
family  near  Boston,  and  of  course  Alonzo  went 
also,  and  it  so  happened  that  Amarina  saw  Alicia 
but  seldom  for  a  year,  when  it  was  June  again 
and  the  wedding-day  at  hand.  The  Day  farm 
remained  for  the  greater  part  of  the  time  in 
charge  of  the  farmer  who  managed  it,  and  Alicia 
and  her  mother  remained  away.  Alicia  was 
fond  of  gayety,  and  she  was  preparing  her 
trousseau  in  Boston.  Then,  too,  Alonzo,  who 
was  a  lawyer,  had  an  important  case,  which 
kept  him  closely  confined  in  the  city. 

In  the  mean  time  Amarina  had  had  her  own 
experiences.  It  was  as  if  Alicia's  betrothal  had 
furnished  her  with  a  key-note  to  which  she 
could  not  help  but  pipe  and  sing,  whether  she 
would  or  not.  She  began  to  be  cognizant,  as 
she  had  never  been  before,  of  Thomas  Hether- 
ly's  comings  and  goings,  his  house  being  dis 
tinctly  visible  from  her  sitting-room  windows, 
especially  when  the  leaves  were  off  the  trees. 
In  the  winter-time  Thomas  Hetherly  had  lit 
tle  work  to  do,  except  the  care  of  the  few 
creatures  which  comprised  his  live-stock.  She 
watched  him  in  the  frosty  mornings,  with  fur-/ 
tive  eyes  turned  from  her  embroidery,  going 
back  and  forth  between  the  old  red  barn  and 
the  well  with  buckets  of  water.  Then  she 
watched  him  with  a  book  under  his  arm  of  an 

61 


THE   FAIR    LAVINIA  AND    OTHERS 

afternoon,  setting  forth  for  the  village  library. 
The  village  library  was  but  a  poor  affair,  and 
that  set  her  thinking  of  her  father's  study,  the 
walls  of  which  were  lined  with  books — not  new 
ones,  but  of  a  rare  selection.  Then  one  after 
noon  Mrs.  Ephraim  Janeway,  a  neighbor,  came 
in  to  call.  She  was  an  elderly  woman  with  the 
eye  of  a  fox,  and  the  whole  village  was  as  an 
open  book  to  her,  in  which  she  read  to  others' 
discredit  and  her  own  glory.  It  was  this  wom 
an  who  spoke  of  Thomas  Hetherly  and  his 
haunting  of  the  village  library.  "  'Tis  said  he 
is  bound  to  read  it  all  through,"  said  she,  "but 
to  my  mind  he  would  not  have  such  a  hunger 
and  thirst  for  books  were  it  not  that  Prudence 
Emmons  has  the  charge  of  them."  This  Pru 
dence  Emmons  was  a  widow  to  whom  the 
charge  of  the  little  library  had  been  given  to 
eke  out  her  scanty  income,  and  she  was  con 
sidered  very  fair  to  see. 

Amarina  flushed  angrily.  "It  seems  hard 
if  a  man  cannot  indulge  a  love  for  good  books 
without  a  suspicion  of  that  kind,"  said  she. 
She  spoke  in  a  soft  voice,  and  took  another 
stitch  in  her  embroidery,  but  she  was  angry. 

Mrs.  Janeway  was  shrewd  and  never  affronted 
willingly .  "Well,  it  may  not  be  so,"  she  ad 
mitted.  "I  heard  it  at  the  se wing-circle  the 
other  afternoon,  and  one  can  never  tell  what 

62 


AMARINA'S    ROSES 

the  truth  is  when  women  are  gabbling  together ; 
but  the  library  is  old,  and  Mrs.  Prudence  Em- 
mons  was  always  one  whom  gentlemen  favored, 
and  she  has  lately  taken  to  going  without  caps, 
and  she  will  never  see  thirty-five  again." 

After  Mrs.  Ephraim  Jane  way  had  gone,  Ama- 
rina  went  up  to  her  own  room  and  stood  before 
her  looking-glass  and  pulled  off  her  own  cap 
with  an  impatient  gesture,  and  when  her  yellow 
curls,  being  set  free,  tumbled  about  her  face, 
she  .shook  her  head  defiantly.  "  I  will  wait  un-  ; 
til  my  face  be  thirty  years  old  before  I  crown 
it  with  a  cap,  and  let  them  say  what  they  will," 
said  she,  quite  aloud. 

That  evening,  when  the  old  servant- woman 
Martha  was  out  in  the  kitchen  with  her  hus 
band,  she  said  to  him  that  she  wondered  if 
Amarina  had  anybody  in  mind,  because  she 
had  left  off  her  cap,  but  the  old  man  was  smok 
ing  stupidly  his  after-supper  pipe,  and  shook  / 
his  head  with  a  mumble  meant  to  express  his  ^ 
ignorance.  It  was  the  very  next  afternoon 
that  old  Jacob  came  to  her  and  told  her,  with 
a  chuckle  half  of  amazement,  half  of  suspicion, 
that  Amarina  had  asked  him  to  step  across  the 
road  to  the  Hetherly  house  and  ask  if  Mr. 
Thomas  Hetherly  would  do  her  the  favor  to 
call  some  evening  on  a  matter  of  business.  The 
old  man  eyed  his  wife  roguishly  for  approbation 

63 


THE   FAIR  LAVINIA  AND   OTHERS 

at  his  discovery  of  a  confirmation  of  her  own 
suspicion,  but  she  replied  to  him  angrily. 

"Good  Lord!"  said  she,  "are  you  gone  clean 
daft?  Think  you  for  one  moment  that  one 
like  her  would  favor  one  like  him?  Not  a  col 
lege-learned  man  in  his  whole  family,  and  he 
himself  without  money  enough  to  do  anything 
but  travel  in  the  same  track  his  father  and 
grandfather  went  before  him.  'Tis  a  good 
young  man  enough  he  is,  but  when  it  comes  to 
a  husband  for  Amarina  Deering —  The  old 
woman  made  a  gesture  expressive  of  the  ut 
most  contempt. 

"  She  sends  in  December  to  see  about  mo  win' 
the  fields!"  said  old  Jacob,  and  he  chuckled 
openly. 

"What  of  that? — the  Deerings  were  always 
beforehand  with  their  plans,"  returned  Martha, 
sharply. 

Still,  when  Thomas  Hetherly  did  not  obey 
her  mistress's  summons  for  some  ten  days 
afterwards,  she  waxed  indignant.  "I  would 
like  to  know  who  he  thinks  he  is,"  she  said  to 
old  Jacob.  "One  of  the  Hetherlys  not  to  run 
as  fast  as  his  feet  could  carry  him  when  one  of 
the  Deerings,  and  a  lady  too,  sends  for  him!" 
But  old  Jacob  was  smoking  his  pipe  again  after 
supper,  and  he  only  grunted  in  reply. 

Amarina  herself  was  somewhat  surprised  at 
64 


AMARiNA'S    ROSES 

Thomas  Hetherly's  lack  of  haste  to  call  in  re 
sponse  to  her  request.  The  very  first  evening 
after  it  was  sent  she  had  curled  her  hair  care- 
fully  and  put  on  her  brown  silk,  and  an  em 
broidered  collar  with  a  cameo  brooch.  The 
next  evening  she  had  so  arrayed  herself  again, 
and  the  next  after  that  she  had  put  on  a  crim 
son  silk  which  had  been  said  to  become  her. 
Every  evening  she  had  arrayed  herself,  with  a 
view  to  Thomas  Hetherly's  appearance,  and 
not  one  item  of  her  furbishing  had  escaped  old 
Martha. 

It  was  that  very  evening  when  she  had  in 
consistently  complained  of  his  non-appearance 
that  there  came  a  tap  on  the  old  knocker,  and 
Martha  pulled  off  her  apron  to  answer  it.  "  He 
has  come,"  said  she. 

Old  Jacob  roused  himself.  He  removed  his 
pipe,  which  he  seemed  to  suck  with  the  blank 
content  of  an  infant. 

"To  see  about  mo  win'  of  the  hay  in  De 
cember!"  said  he,  and  chuckled.  But  his  face 
sobered  at  his  wife's  fierce  glance,  and  he  re 
sumed  his  pipe  while  she  went  to  the  door  to 
admit  Thomas  Hetherly. 

Amarina  looked  a  little  shy  as  she  arose  to 
welcome  Thomas.  The  old  aunt  had  retired. 
Thomas  had  made  no  preparations  for  his  call 
on  Amarina.  He  wore  his  every-day  clothes, 

65 


THE  FAIR  LAVINIA  AND  OTHERS 

which  were  neat  and  whole,  although  coarse. 
Still,  he  was  a  splendid  figure  of  a  man,  and  he 
dominated  his  clothes  as  he  stood  there  return 
ing  Amarina's  greeting.  He  had  come,  in  fact, 
with  a  curious  inward  sulkiness  and  revolt  of 
pride.  But  no  man  could  have  found  any 
fault  with  his  reception,  which  was  as  punctil 
ious  as  towards  any  gentleman  in  the  land. 

"I  pray  you  be  seated,  Mr.  Hetherly,"  said 
Amarina,  and  she  indicated  with  her  long,  slim, 
white  hand  a  chair  which  was  in  some  sense  the 
chair  of  state  for  a  caller.  But  Hetherly  re 
mained  standing. 

"  I  thank  you,"  he  said,  "but  I  have  not  long 
to  stay,  and  I  will  not  sit  if  you  will  be  so  kind 
as  to  tell  me  your  business  with  me." 

Amarina  colored.  She  herself  felt  the  ab 
surdity  of  sending  for  Thomas  on  the  only  er 
rand  which  she  had  been  able  to  devise.  She 
hesitated  a  moment.  "I  wished  to  ask  you 
if  you  had  any  objection  to  farming  my  land 
on  shares  as  you  did  last  year  ?"  she  said,  timidly, 
and  she  saw  the  young  man's  start  of  surprise, 
and  colored  to  the  roots  of  her  yellow  hair. 

"  None  in  the  least,"  replied  Thomas  Hether 
ly,  and  with  that  he  turned  to  go,  but  Amarina 
stopped  him.  She  had  come  quite  close  to  him, 
and  she  held  one  of  the  silver  candlesticks  in 
her  hand. 

66 


AMARINA'S   ROSES 

"I  wanted  to  ask,"  she  said,  "if  —  if  you 
would  not  like  to  borrow  some  books  from  my 
father's  library.  There  are  a  great  many,  and 
I  should  be  very  glad  to  loan  them  to  you." 

Thomas's  own  face  colored.  "Thank  you," 
he  replied;  "but  I  get  books  from  the  library." 

His  voice  was  fairly  curt,  but  Amarina  con 
tinued.  Somehow  the  curt  ness  pleased  fye'r  bet 
ter  than  subservience  would  have  done. 

"But  the  village  library  is  small,"  said  she, 
"and  I  have  heard  the  books  were  not  well 
chosen,  and  if  you  wished— 

"Thank  you,"  said  Thomas  again,  "but  I 
find  very  good  books  in  the  village  library." 

Amarina  tried  to  look  at  him  haughtily,  but 
the  benefit  thrust  back  upon  her  in  such  wise 
hurt  her,  and  in  spite  of  herself  her  voice  had 
a  piteous  tone.  "Very  well,  Mr.  Hetherly," 
she  said;  "it  was  only  that  I  saw  you  going  to 
the  library  for  books,  and  I  had  so  many,  and 
I  thought—" 

Then  suddenly  Thomas's  own  face  softened. 
In  thinking  of  it  afterwards  he  saw  himself  as 
a  churl,  instead  of  a  man  well  aware  of  his  own 
individual  worth,  and  the  slight  estimate  in 
which  it  was  probably  held  by  this  girl  of  a 
gentle  race.  "Thank  you,"  he  said,  "and  per 
haps,  since  you  are  so  kind — " 

"  Pray  come  directly  into  the  library  with 
67 


THE    FAIR   LAVINIA  AND   OTHERS 

me,"  cried  Amarina,  eagerly.  She  held  the 
streaming  candle  high,  and  Thomas  followed 
her  out  of  the  warm  sitting-room  and  through 
the  length  of  the  icy  hall  into  the  library. 
Amarina  moved  close  to  one  of  the  book-lined 
walls,  holding  the  candle.  "Please  make  your 
choice,"  said  she,  "and  please  take  as  many  as 
you  like." 

Thomas  Hetherly  stood  scrutinizing  the  books 
over  which  the  candle-light  played  uncertainly. 
The  room  was  very  cold;  his  breath  and  Ama- 
rina's  mingled  in  a  cloud  of  smoke. 

She  held  the  candle  here  and  there  that 
Thomas  might  see  the  old  books  the  better,  and 
her  face  was  radiant,  and  her  cheeks  began  to 
glow  with  the  cold.  The  windows  were  ex 
panses  of  white  frost-work  which  sent  out  here 
and  there  sparkles  like  diamonds  where  the 
light  from  the  candle  struck  them.  The  books 
which  finally  Thomas  selected  felt  like  blocks 
of  ice  to  his  hand.  Amarina  scudded  before 
him  to  the  sitting-room,  and  he  followed  her, 
but  he  did  not  accept  her  invitation  to  sit 
down.  That  night,  after  Amarina  went  to  bed, 
the  light  of  his  reading-lamp  shone  in  her  face. 
She  had  in  her  heart  the  pleasant  warmth  of  a 
kindly  deed  to  one  beloved,  although  she  still 
never  seriously  entertained  for  one  moment  the 
possibility  of  marriage  with  Thomas  Hetherly. 

68 


AMARINA'S   ROSES 

It  was  not  because  she  scorned  him,  for  Ama- 
rina  had  in  one  sense  a  humble  heart,  but  sim 
ply  because  he  seemed  to  her  of  another  sort. 
She  regarded  him,  when  it  came  to  a  question 
of  mating,  as  a  bird-of-paradise  might  regard 
a  sparrow.  None  of  the  Deerings  had  married 
any  but  men  with  liberal  educations  and  of 
gentle  antecedents.  Thomas  Hetherly's  father, 
before  his  health  failed  him,  had  been  the  village 
painter,  and  many  a  time  when  she  was  a  child 
she  had  seen  him  in  his  stained  white  clothes 
perched  on  a  ladder  before  her  own  house.  His 
illness  had  been  due  to  the  poison  in  the  white- 
lead,  and  Amarina  had  heard  from  Mrs.  Eph- 
raim  Jane  way  that  he  had  made  Thomas  prom 
ise  on  that  account  that  he  would  never  take 
up  his  father's  old  trade. 

"He  could  have  made  a  better  living  at  it," 
Mrs.  Jane  way  said;  "I  don't  believe  Thomas 
more  than  makes  two  ends  meet,  though  I  hear 
he  sold  a  good  deal  of  honey  last  year."  Thomas 
kept  bees,  and  a  long  row  of  hives  stretched  be 
hind  his  house. 

In  a  week's  time  Thomas  returned  the  books, 
and  took  two  more  home  with  him,  but  he  did 
not  accept  Amarina' s  invitation  to  be  seated. 
The  almost  churlishness  of  his  manner  had  gone, 
but  instead  was  a  pride  before  which  Amarina's  ,/ 
own  shrunk,  fairly  dwarfed. 

69 


THE   FAIR   LAVINIA  AND  OTHERS 

"I'd  like  to  know  who  Thomas  Hetherly 
thinks  he  is?"  said  old  Martha,  one  evening, 
after  he  had  taken  his  books  and  gone.  She 
had  entered  the  sitting-room  on  an  errand 
about  breakfast.  "  Anybody  would  think  he 
was  a  prince  to  see  the  way  he  acts." 

"Nonsense,"  said  Amarina. 

"He  holds  up  his  head  as  if  there  wasn't 
anybody  in  the  country  quite  good  enough  to 
speak  to  him,"  continued  Martha;  "and  what 
is  he  ?  He  just  grubs  along  on  that  little  land, 
and  farms  yours  on  shares,  and  keeps  bees. 
H'm!" 

"He  has  a  good  deal  of  book-learning,"  said 
Amarina,  blushing,  and  timidly  yet  dignifiedly 
on  the  defensive. 

"He  ain't  college-l'arnt.  What  college  did 
he  ever  go  to,  I'd  like  to  know?" 

"He  has  read  a  great  deal,  and  taught  him 
self  a  great  deal.  He  can  read  Greek  and 
Latin,  and  he  has  studied  mathematics." 

"H'm!"  said  Martha  again. 

When  Martha  was  out  in  the  kitchen  she 
sat  down  by  the  other  side  of  the  stove  with  a 
face  so  glum  that  even  old  Jacob  dropped  his 
peaceful  pipe  to  stare  at  her  and  inquire  thick 
ly  what  was  the  matter. 

"  I  know  what  is  the  matter,"  said  old  Martha, 
She  was  a  very  large  woman,  and  her  small 

70 


AMARINA'S   ROSES 

eyes  rolled  with  unwarranted  accusation  at  her 
husband  from  the  placid  curves  of  her  dis 
turbed  face. 

"What's  to  pay?"  further  asked  old  Jacob. 

"  Girls  don't  leave  off  caps  when  they're 
turned  thirty,  and  put  on  silk  dresses,  and 
stand  hours  in  freezin'  rooms  a-holdin'  candles 
for  young  men  to  pick  out  books  for  nothin'; 
that's  what's  to  pay,"  said  she. 

"You  don't  think- 

"  I  think  that  when  a  body  can't  get  a  sweet 
grape,  a  body  will  take  a  sour  sometimes  rather 
than  no  grape  at  all,"  returned  Martha;  "and 
to  think  of  old  Abel  Hetherly's  son  a-holdin' 
up  of  his  head  when  he  comes,  as  if  he  was  the 
lord  of  all  creation!" 

"Abel  Hetherly  was  a  good  man,"  remarked 
Jacob.  Old  Abel  Hetherly  had  been  one  of 
his  boyhood  friends. 

"Of  course  he  was  a  good  man.  I'd  like  to 
know  who's  sayin'  anythin'  agin'  him,"  re 
turned  his  wife,  crossly;  "but,  Lord!  who's  his 
son,  to  come  over  here  puttin'  on  sech  airs,  and 
she  a-dressin'  of  herself  up  as  if  the  President 
was  comin'?  Her  blue  and  white  plaid  silk 
on  to-night.  Lord!  Thomas  Hetherly's  moth- 
er  never  had  but  one  silk  dress  in  her  life,  and 
that  was  a  cinnamon-brown  one  that  made  her 
look  as  yaller  as  saffron,  and  she  was  laid  out 
6  '  71 


THE   FAIR    LAVINIA  AND  OTHERS 

in  it.  Thomas  Hetherly  ain't  used  to  women 
in  silk  dresses,  and  he  ain't  no  call  to  come  and 
hold  up  his  head  so  high  afore  them  that  wears 
them.  What  if  he  does  know  a  little  book- 
learnin'  ?  What's  book-learnin'  to  an  old  fam 
ily  like  the  Deerin's?  They're  above  book- 
learnin',  and  always  was.  They  had  books  jest 
as  they  had  bread  and  butter,  but  they  was 
above  'em.  Books  is  nothin'  but  ideas,  and 
not  true  at  that,  most  of  'em,  printed  and  put 
betwixt  covers,  but  folks  is  folks.  Lord! 
Thomas  Hetherly  and  one  of  the  Deerings,  an' 
he  a-seemin'  to  look  down  on  her  at  that.  If  I 
was  her  mother  I'd  give  her  a  piece  of  my  mind." 
Amarina  continued  to  dress  her  hair  prettily, 
yfco  go  without  her  cap,  and  to  don  a  becoming 
gown  on  the  evenings  on  which  she  expected 
Thomas  Hetherly  might  come.  However,  all 
this  time,  Thomas  never  presumed  upon  the 
privilege  which  most  men  might  have  esteemed 
offered  to  them.  He  never  lingered  a  moment 
beyond  the  time  necessary  to  choose  his  books. 
And  Amarina  never  acknowledged  to  herself 
that  she  would  have  it  otherwise.  Now  and 
then  there  was  a  word  or  two  between  them, 
mostly  with  regard  to  the  weather,  and  that 
was  all,  save  that  now  and  then  there  was  a 
look  in  Thomas's  eyes  when  he  regarded  Ama 
rina,  which  caused  her  to  lower  hers  quickly, 

72 


AMARINA'S    ROSES 

and  him  to  turn  his  away  with  something  of 
brusqueness,  for  the  truth  was  that  he  was 
angry  with  himself  for  yielding  to  the  spell 
which  she,  unwittingly  or  not,  cast  upon  him, 
with  her  fair  face  and  her  gentle,  high-bred 
ways.  And  yet  in  time  he  came  to  have  a 
defiance  of  his  own  humbleness,  and  he  argued 
with  himself  that  whether  his  worldly  estate 
fitted  him  to  be  her  mate  or  not,  yet  his  love 
as  a  man  was  worthy  of  her  esteem,  and  that 
he  should  be  lacking  in  self-respect  did  he 
shrink  from  avowing  it  to  her.  So  it  happened 
that  in  June,  when  the  roses  were  in  blossom^/ 
and  Alicia  Day  had  come  home,  and,  in  fact,  the 
wedding  was  the  next  day  but  one,  he  sent 
Amarina  a  letter,  and  this  was  the  letter : 

"DEAR  MADAM  AMARINA  DEERING, — He  who  in 
dites  the  following  does  so  for  the  sake  of  his  own 
self-esteem,  believing  that  although  his  worldly  es 
tate  be  inferior,  and  an  insurmountable  obstacle  to 
his  union  with  you,  yet  the  affection  which  he  cherish 
es  in  his  heart  for  your  graces  of  face  and  mind  ren 
ders  him  the  equal  of  any  man,  and  that  he  confesses 
himself  less  than  himself  if  he  fails  to  avow  it.  I 
therefore  beg  leave  to  inform  you,  madam,  that  I 
love  you  and  you  only,  and  shall  so  love  you  until 
the  day  of  my  death,  and  I  tell  you  this  asking  for 
naught  in  return,  and  even  scorning  aught  in  return, 
as  a  giver  may  scorn  reward,  and  I  remain  your  obe 
dient  servant  to  command, 

"THOMAS  HETHERLY." 

73 


THE   FAIR   LAVINIA  AND  OTHERS 

When  Amarina  received  this  strange  letter, 
she  read  it  and  locked  it  up  in  her  little  desk, 
and  reflected  upon  it.  There  was  something 
in  the  haughty  attitude  of  this  poor  lover  who 
scorned  to  woo  which  she  seemed  to  understand 
as  she  had  before  never  understood  anything 
in  another  human  soul.  Amarina  reflected 
upon  the  letter  while  she  finished  her  brides 
maid  gown  for  Alicia's  wedding.  She  made 
over  an  old  India  muslin  which  had  belonged 
J  to  her  mother,  and  the  fancy  had  seized  her 
to  embroider  over  the  pattern  in  colors.  She 
therefore  went,  with  colored  embroidery  silks, 
all  over  the  delicate  patterns  of  the  muslin, 
until  it  was  blooming  with  garlands  of  bright 
flowers.  The  gown  was  low  cut,  but  there  was 
an  embroidered  scarf  to  wear  over  the  neck, 
^  iand  Amarina  wore  a  wreath  of  tiny  rosebuds 
twisted  among  her  curls.  On  the  day  of  the 
wedding  she  set  out  a  long  time  before  the 
hour  appointed,  since  she  was  to  assist  in  dress 
ing  the  bride.  She  had  with  her,  laid  carefully 
on  the  seat  of  the  coach,  a  great  bouquet  of 
bride  roses,  gathered  from  her  garden,  and  tied 
with  white  lutestring  ribbon,  and  the  bride  was 
to  carry  it.  Amarina  had  seen  but  little  of 
Alicia  lately;  Alonzo  she  had  not  seen  at  all. 
Whenever  she  thought  of  him  it  was  with  a 
shame  and  scorn  which  was  almost  vindictive, 

74 


AMARINA'S    ROSES 

but  with  no  love.  She  had  never  loved  him, 
but  she  had,  in  response  to  his  wooing,  placed 
herself  in  an  attitude  of  receptivity  towards 
love,  and  for  that  she  found  it  hard  to  forgive 
him. 

When  she  reached  the  Day  house,  Alicia's    > 
mother,  as  graceful  and  fair  to  look  upon  as  B.J 
spray  of  lilacs  in  her  shimmering  lilac  satin, 
came  to  meet  her,  and  her  gentle  face  was  pale 
and  distressed.     "Oh,  my  dearest  Amarina!" 
she  cried,  "  I  am  so  glad  you  are  come,  for  some 
thing  very  sad  has  happened  to  us,  and  I  am 
looking  forward  to  you,  and  you  only,  to  set 
matters  right." 

With  that  she  drew  Amarina  wondering  after 
her  into  the  house,  and  into  the  great  parlor  all 
trimmed  with  flowers  for  the  wedding.  And 
all  the  house  was  sweet  with  flowers  and  wine 
and  wedding-cake. 

"My  dear,"  said  Alicia's  mother,  "she  will 
not  be  married;  and,  oh,  the  disgrace  that  has 
come  upon  us  this  day,  with  the  guests  all 
bidden  and  no  wedding!" 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  Amarina,  her 
self  pale  and  gasping. 

"She  will  not  be  married!" 

"And  why?" 

"She  sits  in  her  chamber,  and  her  wedding- 
gown  lies  on  her  bed,  and  she  will  not  put  it 

75 


THE   FAIR   LAVINIA  AND  OTHERS 

on  nor  be  married,  nor  tell  any  of  us  why;  and 
I  have  been  looking  for  you,  dear,  thinking  she 
might  be  more  open  with  one  of  her  own  age 
and  her  closest  friend  than  even  with  her  own 
mother."  And  as  she  said  that,  the  poor  lady 
broke  into  sobs  and  lamentations.  "Oh,  go 
up  to  Alicia's  chamber  and  talk  with  her,  my 
dear,"  she  begged;  and  Amarina  forthwith  ran 
up  the  stairs,  the  carved  balusters  of  which 
were  wound  with  green  vines,  and  entered  her 
I  friend's  chamber.  Alicia  sat  there  alone  in  a 
j  rocking-chair,  and  she  was  dressed  in  an  old 
loose  gown  of  sprigged  pink-and- white  muslin, 
and  her  black  hair  was  tumbling  over  her 
shoulders,  and  she  was  rocking  herself  violent 
ly  back  and  forth,  and  her  beautiful  mouth  was 
set  in  a  straight  line.  But  when  Amarina  en 
tered  she  sprang  up  and  accosted  her  with  a 
sort  of  fury. 

"You  may  have  him!  you  may  have  him!" 
said  she.  "Go  down  and  marry  him  if  you 
j  will!  Put  on  my  wedding-gown  and  my  veil. 
Go  down  and  marry  him,  I  say!" 

Amarina  looked  at  her  friend  sternly.  ' '  Alicia, 
what  do  you  mean?"  said  she. 

"Well  you  know  what  I  mean.  'Tis  you  he 
shall  wed,  and  not  me." 

Then  Amarina's  own  quick  temper  flashed. 
"Know  you,  Mistress  Alicia  Day,  I  would  not 


AMARINA'S    ROSES 

wed  with  Alonzo  Fairwater  if  he  were  the  last 
man  in  the  world!"  she  cried  out,  and  her  face 
flamed. 

"Yes,  'tis  you  he  shall  wed,  and  not  me." 

"Alicia  Day,  have  you  lost  your  wits?" 

"Tell  me  how  many  times  Alonzo  came  to 
call  upon  you  last  summer  before  I  returned!" 

"I  cannot  tell." 

"Of  course  you  cannot  tell,  for  the  times 
passed  count,  but  Alonzo  told  me  that  he  called 
but  once  to  pay  his  respects.  Tell  me  if  he 
spoke  the  truth?" 

Amarina  was  silent. 

"Tell  me  if  he  spoke  the  truth,  Amarina 
Deering?" 

And  again  Amarina  was  silent,  for  she  could 
not  reply. 

"  I  knew  it,"  Alicia  said,  with  such  an  accent 
of  woe  that  Amarina  shuddered. 

"Alicia,  sweetheart,  he  did  come  more  than 
once,  but — but  he  made  no — no  avowal,"  stam 
mered  Amarina. 

"  Did  he  say  or  do  anything  that  would  have 
caused  you  any  disturbance  had  you  been  in  my 
place? — answer  me  that,"  demanded  Alicia. 

Amarina  was  again  silent  a  moment;  then 
she  answered,  although  she  felt  in  her  heart 
that  she  departed  somewhat  from  the  truth, 
for  as  she  spoke  she  seemed  to  see  Alonzo's 

77 


THE   FAIR   LAVINIA  AND   OTHERS 

ardent  eyes  upon  her  face,  and  feel  his  lips  on 
her  hand.  "No,"  said  she. 

"I  do  not  believe  you,"  said  Alicia.  "I 
have  found  out  that  Alonzo  was  always  at  your 
house  last  summer  before  my  return,  and— 
and  the  one  who  told  me  was  passing,  and  she 
saw  him — she  saw  him — " 

"Kiss  my  hand,"  said  Amarina,  coolly;  "and 
what  of  that?  What  does  kissing  the  hand 
mean?  Nothing  at  all.  And  I  know  who  told 
you;  it  was  Mrs.  Ephraim  Jane  way." 

"  She  thought  it  her  duty  to  tell  me,  and  not 
let  me  marry  the  man  with  whom  my  dear 
est  friend  was  in  love,  when  she  was  breaking 
her  heart  over  him,"  said  Alicia,  in  the  frozen, 
stubborn  tone  which  had  come  into  her  voice. 

Amarina  stared  at  her.  "  I  am  not  breaking 
my  heart  over  him,"  said  she  again — "on  my 
honor." 

Alicia  shook  her  head. 

"Sweetheart,  this  is  nonsense!"  cried  Ama 
rina,  and  as  she  spoke  she  moved  towards  the 
bed  on  which  lay  the  wedding-gown  and  veil. 
"  Here,  sweetheart,  let  us  have  no  more  of  this," 
she  said.  "Come  here  and  let  me  dress  you." 
But  Alicia  began  rocking  back  and  forth  again. 
She  was,  between  her  love  and  jealousy,  scarce 
ly  sane.  Her  face  was  burning  and  her  eyes 
were  wild.  "  Come  here,  Alicia,"  said  Amarina, 

78 


AMARINA'S   ROSES 

but  Alicia  would  not  stir.  "  But,  sweetheart," 
said  Amarina,  so  bewildered  that  she  scarcely 
knew  what  to  say  or  do,  "you  would  marry 
him  if- 

"  Yes,  I  love  him  so  that  I  would  marry  him 
in  spite  of  everything  if  I  were  sure  you  would 
not." 

''I  tell  you  I  would  not." 

Alicia  shook  her  head  in  her  strange,  stubborn 
fashion. 

"Come,  sweetheart,  if  you  love  me,  and  be 
dressed,"  begged  Amarina,  at  her  wits'  end. 

"  I  tell  you  I  will  never  wear  that  wedding- 
dress,  unless  they  put  it  on  me  when  I  am  laid 
in  my  coffin  and  I  cannot  help  it,"  replied  Alicia 
Day,  "unless—" 

"Unless  what?     Do  not  talk  so,  sweet." 

"Unless  I  see  you  happily  married  to  some 
body  else." 

"Then  would  you  believe?" 

"Yes,  then  I  should  believe,"  said  Alicia. 

Amarina  stood  a  moment  reflecting.  Her 
face  colored  rosy  red,  then  she  paled.  Then 
she  spoke  with  a  strange  note  of  fear  and  reso 
lution:  "Very  well,  dear,"  she  said.  "See  me 
married  you  shall."  And  with  that  she  was 
gone. 

Alicia's  mother,  pale  and  trembling,  caught  / 
hold  of  her  white  gown  as  she  was  going  out  of 

79 


THE    FAIR    LAVINIA   AND   OTHERS 

the  door.     "Where  are  you  going?"  she  whis 
pered.     "Will  she?" 

"I  shall  be  back,"  replied  Amarina. 

"Will  she?     Oh,  what  shall  I  do?" 

"She  will  when  I  come  back." 

As  Amarina  drove  away  in  her  coach  she 
had  a  glimpse  of  Alonzo  Fairwater's  face  at  a 
window.  He  looked  ghastly  white  and  troubled, 
and  the  sight  of  him  strengthened  her  for  her 
purpose,  for  she  was  about  to  do  what  no  wom 
an  of  her  family  had  ever  done  before. 

Amarina  bade  old  Jacob  drive  fast,  and  it 
was  not  long  before  she  reached  the  Deering 
house;  and  she  sprang  out  of  her  coach,  and  ran 
in  for  her  scissors  and  some  white  lutestring 
ribbon,  and  was  out  in  the  garden  cutting  an 
other  bouquet  of  bride  roses,  the  while  old 
Martha  watched  her  furtively  from  a  window; 
and  when  she  saw  her  hurry  with  her  great 
bunch  of  white  roses  to  Thomas  Hetherly's, 
she  thought  she  had  gone  clean  mad. 
I  Amarina  hurried  across  the  road,  and  her 
J  garlanded  dress  floated  out  on  either  side  like 
the  wings  of  a  butterfly;  and  as  she  hurried 
she  heard  a  jangling  yet  somewhat  rhythmic 
sound,  like  barbaric  music,  for  Thomas  was 
beating  a  tin  pan  behind  his  house  in  order  to 
settle  a  swarm  of  bees,  which  were  overhead 
in  a  humming  cluster  around  their  queen. 

80 


AMARINA'S    ROSES 

Amarina  paid  no  heed  to  the  bees,  and  she 
ran  up  to  him,  and  held  out  the  bouquet  of 
white  roses;  and  he,  too,  forgot  his  bees,  and 
stopped  beating  the  tin  pan,  and  looked  at 
her,  and  his  face  was  as  white  as  if  he  were 
dead. 

"I  got  your  letter,  Thomas,"  said  she,  in  a 
low  voice,  and  stood  extending  the  bunch  of 
roses  towards  him,  as  if  it  were  some  sword  of 
maidenhood  which  she  was  surrendering.  Still, 
Thomas  did  not  speak;  his  head  was  swimming 
with  the  perplexity  of  it  all. 

"I  got  your  letter,"  Amarina  faltered  again, 
and  it  wras  as  if  she  were  emerging  from  an  at 
mosphere  in  which  she  had  been  born  into 
another,  which  rent  her  with  agony  of  new 
life.  Yet  after  a  second  she  continued:  "Alicia 
will  not  marry  Alonzo,  because  she  has  learned 
that  he  has  paid  some  slight  attention  to  me, 
and  she  will  have  it  that  my  heart  is  broken," 
and  her  voice  had  the  appeal  of  a  child's;  "and 
so — and  so — " 

Thomas  did  not  speak.  He  stood  holding 
his  pan,  and  the  bees  hummed  angrily  over 
head. 

"She  will  not  marry  him  unless  she  is  con 
vinced  by  my  marrying  another  man,"  cried 
Amarina,  tremulously.  She  held  the  roses  tow 
ards  him,  and  they  shook  as  if  in  a  gale.  "  And 

81 


THE   FAIR   LAVINIA  AND  OTHERS 

so,  and  so — I  came  back,  and  I — have  your 
letter,  and — I  have  made  another  bridal  nose 
gay,  and  if — if— 

Then  Thomas  Hetherly  seemed  to  fairly 
tower  over  her.  "  So  you  come  to  me  in  order 
that  I  may  save  your  pride,"  he  cried,  "and  in 
order  that — "  But  his  words  were  cut  short, 
for  down  came  the  bees  in  a  buzzing  mass,  and 
swarmed  on  the  bunch  of  roses  outstretched 
in  Amarina's  hand.  "  Keep  still ! — oh,  keep  still 
for  God's  sake!"  shouted  Thomas  Hetherly. 
And  Amarina  kept  still,  although  she  never  in  all 
her  life  forgot  that  keeping  still  which  seemed 
to  comprise  in  a  few  minutes  an  eternity.  She 
had  nerve  and  courage,  for  she  did  not  come  of 
the  Deerings  for  nothing ;  and  she  held  the  bunch 
of  roses,  which  a  second  before  had  so  shaken, 
with  a  clutch  like  a  vise,  although  the  muscles 
on  her  girlish  arms  swelled  with  the  weight  and 
stress,  and  there  was  a  roaring  in  her  ears  above 
the  war-hum  of  the  bees.  Thomas  ran  for  a 
hive,  and  soon  it  was  all  over,  and  she  had  not 
a  sting ;  but  she  dropped  her  roses,  and  put  both 
her  little  hands  before  her  face  and  sobbed; 
and  in  spite  of  himself,  and  influenced  thereto 
by  a  mightier  and  more  primeval  hunger  for 
;  sweets  than  those  of  the  bees,  Thomas  came 
vclose  to  her  and  took  her  in  his  arms  to  com 
fort  her.  "  'Tis  all  over,  'tis  all  over,  and  the 

82 


AMARINA'S   ROSES 

bees  are  in  the  hive,"  he  said,  "and  don't  be 
afraid,  sweetheart." 

"Oh,  'tis  cruel,  'tis  cruel,"  she  sobbed  out; 
"  'tis  cruel,  Thomas.  For  I  came  not  because 
of  my  pride,  but — because  I — loved  you." 

It  became  one  of  the  village  traditions:  how 
Amarina  Deering  went  to  seek  Thomas  Hether- 
ly,  and  how  his  bees  swarmed  on  her  bridal  bou 
quet,  and  how  he  hived  them,  she  never  getting 
one  sting,  and  how  he  dressed  himself  in  his 
best,  while  she  went  home  to  tell  her  aunt,  who, 
it  was  said,  never  fairly  understood  until  a 
week  later ;  and  then  how  Amarina  and  Thomas 
drove  in  the  coach  back  to  the  Day  house,  and  / 
how  hastily  the  other  bride  was  dressed,  and'' 
how  there  was  a  double  wedding  instead  of  a 
single  one,  as  there  will  sometimes  unexpectedly 
appear  a  double  rose  on  a  bush  of  single  roses! 


EGLANTINA 


EGLANTINA 


EGLANTINA,  tall  and  fair, 
Queen  of  Beauty  and  of  Grace> 
All  my  darkened  house  of  life 
Is  illumined  by  thy  face. 

"Shineth  thou  unto  my  heart 

As  the  dew  in  morning  field, 

When  beneath  the  eastern  sun 

Gems  of  Zion  blaze  revealed. 

"  Sweet 'neth  thou  my  every  thought 

Like  the  bud  when  night  hath  passed, 
And  she  breaks  her  seal  of  bloom 
To  become  a  rose  at  last. 

"Though  in  gloom  thy  lover  sighs, 

Eglantina,  tall  and  fair, 
Love  the  Blind  hath  touched  his  eyes, 
And  he  sees  thce  past  compare!" 

These  verses  were  cut  and  skilfully  colored, 
illuminated  after  a  simple  fashion,  on  a  win- 
7  87 


THE    FAIR    LAVINIA    AND    OTHERS 

dow-shutter  in  the  east  parlor  of  the  old  Litch- 
field  house,  in  Litchfield  Village. 

That  was  Eglantina's  favorite  room,  and 
there  she  used  to  sit  with  Roger  Proctor. 
Eglantina's  father  had  married  for  the  second 
time  when  her  mother  had  been  dead  ten  years, 
and  she  was  eleven.  The  new  wife  had  been  a 
widow  with  one  child,  Roger  Proctor,  a  little 
younger  than  Eglantina.  Dr.  Eliphalet  Litch 
field  had  been  jealous  of  this  son  by  a  former 
husband,  and  had  insisted  upon  the  mother's 
practically  separating  from  him  upon  her  mar 
riage  with  himself. 

So  the  boy,  who  ad  been  blind  from  scarlet- 
fever  ever  since  his  infancy,  was  put  to  board 
with  a  distant  relative  of  his  mother's,  and  was 
seldom  seen  by  her. 

The  new  wife  was  scarcely  more  than  a  girl, 
although  a  widow  with  a  son  of  ten.  She  was 
a  mild  and  delicate  creature,  whose  only  force 
of  character  lay  in  loving  devotion,  and  that 
proved  too  strenuous  for  her  fragile  constitu 
tion.  She  died  a  year  after  her  marriage,  and 
her  little  daughter  died  with  her. 

Then  Dr.  Litchfield  sent  for  the  blind  son 
of  the  dead  woman,  and  lavished  upon  him  a 
curious  affection,  which  was  at  first  not  so 
much  affection  as  a  sentiment  of  duty  and 
remorse.  This  man,  given  to  fierce  strains  of 

88 


EGLANTINA 

mood,  chose  to  fancy  that  his  young  wife's  un 
timely  death  was  a  judgment  of  God  for  their 
desertion  of  her  blind  son.  From  the  time  that 
Roger  Proctor  came  to  live  in  the  Litchfield 
house  his_^  lines  were  cast  in  pleasant  places.  -- 
Dr.  Litchfield  enjoined  upon  his  daughter  Eg- 
lantina  that  she  was  to  treat  the  strange  little 
boy  as  her  own  brother,  and  he  himself  showed 
more  indulgence  towards  him  than  towards  her. 
However,  Eglantina  needed  no  such  reminding. 
From  the  minute  that  the  blind  child  entered 
the  house,  the  other  child  was  his  willing  slave. 
Nothing  was  ever  seen  more  appealing  to  old 
and  young  than  that  little  blind  boy,  Roger 
Proctor.  His  hair,  which  hung  in  straight, 
smooth  lengths,  had  a  wonderful  high  light 
around  his  head  which  suggested  an  aureole. 
His  young  face  between  these  lines  of  gold  was 
an  oval  so  pure  that  it  had  an  effect  of  majesty 
and  peace,  even  in  the  child.  His  blind  eyes,  ^ 
large  and  blue,  seeming  to  give  instead  of  re 
ceive  light,  gazed  with  unswerving  directness 
from  under  a  high  forehead  of  innocent  serious- ! 
ness.  Although  his  forehead  seemed  almost 
frowning  with  gravity,  Roger's  mouth  was  al 
ways  smiling  with  a  wonderful  smile,  before 
which  people  shrank  a  little.  "He  looks  like 
an  angel,"  they  said.  The  blind  boy  gave,  as 
no  seeing  child  could  have  done,  an  impression 

89 


THE   FAIR   LAVINIA  AND   OTHERS 

of  light  and  clearness.  Soon  his  step-father 
adored  him,  and  as  for  Eglantina,  she  wor 
shipped  him  from  the  first. 

No  greater  contrast  could  have  been  im 
agined  than  there  was  between  the  girl  and 
the  boy.  They  were  of  about  the  same  age, 
but  Eglantina  was  head  and  shoulders  above 
Roger,  though  he  was  not  below  the  usual 
height.  But  Eglantina  was  abnormally  tall; 
-  her  stature  was  almost  a  deformity,  especially 
since  she  was  exceedingly  slender.  And  that 
was  not  all:  crowning  that  slim  height  was  a 
head  and  face  unfortunate  not  so  much  from 
lack  of  beauty  as  from  a  mark  on  one  cheek 
which  had  been  therefrom  birth.  A  story  was 
told  in  the  village  of  how  Dr.  Litchfield's  wife 
had  longed  for  roses  in  winter  when  there  were 
none,  and  talked  of  the  roses  which  climbed  over 
the  front  porch  in  the  summer-time,  and  de 
clared  that  she  could  smell  them  when  none 
were  there;  and  how  at  last,  when  Eglantina 
was  born,  there  on  one  little  cheek  wras  that 
hideous  travesty  of  a  red  rose7,  which  she  must 
bear  until  the  day  of  her  death.  The  mother, 
who  had  a  strong  vein  of  romance,  had  called 
the  child  Eglantina,  and  mourned  until  she 
died,  not  long  after,  because  of  her  disfigure 
ment,  and  often  kissed,  with  tears  of  self-re 
proach  and  the  most  passionate  tenderness  and 

90 


EGLANTINA 

pity,  the  mark  on  the  little  cheek,  as  if  she  would 
kiss  it  away. 

Dr.  Litchfield  ever  after  hated  roses;  he 
would  have  none  in  his  garden,  and  the  eglan 
tine  over  the  front  porch  was  rooted  up.  Eg- 
lantina  herself  had  an  antipathy  to  roses,  and 
never  could  she  have  a  whiff  of  rose  scent  but 
that  she  turned  faint  and  ill.  Nothing  could 
exceed  the  child's  sensitiveness  with  regard  to 
the  mark  on  her  cheek.  She.Jiever  looked  in 
her  glass  without  seeing  that,  and  that  only. 
That  dreadful  blur  of  youth  and  beauty  seemed 
all  her  face;  she^  was  blind  to  all  else.  She 
shrank  from  strangers  with  a  shyness  that  was 
almost  panic.  Eyes  upon  her  face  seemed  to 
scorch  her  very  heart.  But  as  she  grew  older, 
although  the  inward  suffering  was  much  the 
same,  she  learned  to  give  less  outward  evidence 
of  it.  She  no  longer  shrank '  so  openly  from 
strangers ;  she  even  endured  pitying  glances  or 
repulsion  with  a  certain  gentleness,  which  gave 
evidence  to  enormous  patience  rather  than 
bravery.  When  Roger  had  been  in  her  father's 
house  some  years,  she  became  conscious  of 
a  feeling  which  filled  her  with  horror.  She 
strove  against  it,  she  tried  to  imagine  that  it 
was  not  so,  that  she  could  not  be  such  a  mon 
ster,  but  she  knew  all  of  a  sudden  that  she 
was  glad  that  Roger  W&s  blind.  Whenever  she 

91 


THE   FAIR   LAVINIA   AND   OTHERS 

looked  at  him  came  the  wild,  selfish  triumph 
and  joy  that  he  could  not  see  her.  Her  con 
sciousness  of  this  came  upon  her  in  full  force 
for  the  first  time  one  afternoon  in  August,  when 
she  was  eighteen  and  Roger  a  few  months  young 
er.  They  were  crossing  a  field  behind  the 
house,  hand  in  hand  as  usual,  when  Roger 
turned  his  sightless  eyes  towards  the  sorrel, 
and  nodded  and  smiled  as  if  he  saw.  "I  have 
made  a 'poem  to  you,  Eglantina,"  said  he. 

Eglantina  colored  until  the  rest  of  her  face 
was  as  red  as  the  rose-mark  on  her  left  cheek; 
then  she  turned  pale,  and  that  brought  it  into 
stronger  relief.  "You  must  not,"  she  said, 
faintly. 

"Why  not?  There  is  no  one  in  the  whole 
world  as  beautiful  as  you  are,  Eglantina." 

"No,  I  am  not,"  she  returned,  in  a  pitiful, 
hesitating  voice,  as  if  the  truth  were  stifling 
her. 

"Yes." 

"You  do  not/know;  you  never  saw  me." 

"I  have  seen  you  with  my  whole  soul.  You 
are  the  most  beautiful  girl  in  the  whole  world, 
Eglantina." 

Eglantina  shut  her  mouth  hard.  She  pulled 
her  broad-brimmed  hat  over  her  face  by  the 
green  bridle-ribbon,  and  cast  her  disfigured 
cheek  into  a  deep  shadpw. 

92 


EGLANTINA 

Roger  looked  at  her  anxiously.  "What  is 
the  matter,  Eglantina?"  he  asked,  softly. 

"Nothing,"  said  she. 

When  they  reached  home,  she  ran  up  to  her 
own  chamber.  She  went  to  her  little  mirror 
over  her  white-draped  dressing-table  and  gazed 
long  in  it.  Then  she  sank  down  before  it  on 
the  floor,  in  an  agony  of  self-abasement.  After 
a  while  she  rose  and  pulled  the  muslin  drapery 
over  the  glass,  and  did  not  look  in  it  again. 
When  she  went  down-stairs  there  was  Roger's 
poem  cut  skilfully  on  the  shutter  in  the  east 
parlor.  Roger  could  not  use  pen  or  pencil  to 
much  advantage,  but  he  could  cut  the  letters 
plainly,  feeling  them  with  his  long,  sensitive 
fingers.  Eglantina  held  her  cambric  pocket- 
handkerchief  over  her  marred  cheek,  and  read 
every  word,  smiling  tenderly.  Then  she  put 
the  handkerchief  to  her  eyes  and  leaned  against 
the  shutter  and  sobbed  softly.  Then  Roger 
came  into  the  room,  feeling  his  way  towards 
her,  and  she  choked  her  sobs  back  and  dried 
her  eyes.  Roger  wished  to  color  the  letters  of 
his  poem,  and  Eglantina  sorted  out  the  colors 
from  her  paint-box,  and  he  painted  them. 

Then,  whenever  she  saw  that  poem  to  Eg 
lantina  tall  and  fair,  she  tried  to  picture  her 
self  as  Roger  saw  her,  and  not  as  she  really  was. 
She  tried  to  forget  the  birth-mark,  she  tried 

93 


THE   FAIR   LAVINIA   AND   OTHERS 

not  to  think  of  it  when  she  spoke  to  Roger,  lest 
(  the  consciousness  of  it  be  evident  in  her  voice, 
*  but  that  she  could  not  compass.  She  thought 
of  it  always,  and  the  more  she  strove  against 
it  the  more  she  was  conscious  of  it,  until  she 
grew  to  feel  as  if  the  mark  were  on  her  very 
soul.  But  her  patience  grew  and  grew  to  keep 
pace  with  it.  There  was  in  her  heart  ceaseless 
torture  and  suffering,  but  never  rebellion. 

Everybody  who  knew  Eglantina  spoke  well 
of  her.  They  said  what  a  pity  that  such  a  good 
girl  should  be  under  such  an  affliction,  and  they 
also  said,  when  they  saw  the  piteous  couple 
together,  the  man  who  could  not  see  and  the 
woman  who  should  not  be  seen,  that  there  was 
an  ideal  match.  Eglantina's  father  began  also 
to  have  that  fancy.  He  had  grown  old  of  late 
years,  and  had  the  troubled  persistency  of  a 
child  for  his  Way  when  once  he  had  begun  to 
dwell  upon  it.  It  was  not  long  after  Roger  had 
cut  his  verses  to  Eglantina  tall  and  fair  on  the 
shutter  that  he  called  Eglantina  back  one 
evenings/after  she  had  started  up-stairs  with 
her  candle.  "  Eglantina,  come  here  a  mo 
ment,"  he  said,  "  I  want  to  speak  to  you." 

Eglantina  returned  and  stood  before  him, 
the  candle-light  illuminating  her  poor  face, 
which  her  father  had  never  seen  without  a 
qualm  of  pain  and  rebellion.  That  mark  was 

94 


EGLANTINA 

for  him  like  a  blot  on  the  fair  face  of  love  itself, 
and  his  will  rose  up  against  it  in  futile  revolt. 
Her  father  looked  at  her,  his  forehead  con 
tracted,  then  he  turned  towards  the  shutter, 
and  again  towards  her  with  a  half -smile,  while 
one  long  finger  pointed  to  the  verses.  "Have 
you  seen  these,  Eglantina?"  he  said. 

"Yes,  sir,"  replied  Eglantina,  gravely.  She 
looked  full  at  her  father  with  a  look  which  was 
fairly  eloquent.  "See  what  I  am,"  it  said. 
"What  have  I  to  do  with  love- verses?  Why 
do  you  mock  me  by  speaking  of  this?" 

But  her  father  shook  his  head  stubbornly, 
as  if  in  direct  answer  to  such  unspoken  speech 
of  hers.  "If,"  he  said,  with  a  sort  of  stern 
abashedness,  for  he  had  never  spoken  of  such 
things  to  his  daughter — "if  your  own  heart 
leads  you  in  that  direction,  Eglantina,  there 
is  no  possible  objection,  and  I  should  like  to 
see  you  settled.  I  am  growing  old." 

Eglantina,  still  speechless,  raised  one  arm, 
her  lace  sleeve  falling  back  from  her  wrist,  and 
pointed  to  her  marred  left  cheek.  There  was 
in  the  gesture  utmost  resignation  and  pride, 
and  her  eyes  reproved  her  father  mutely. 

Her  father  frowned  and  continued  shaking 
his  head  in  denial.  "  I  still  say  that  under  the 
circumstances  there  can  be  no  possible  objec 
tion,"  he  said.  "What  difference  can  that 

95 


THE    FAIR   LAVINIA  AND   OTHERS 

make  to  a  blind  man  who  has  learned  to  es 
teem  you  for  your  own  true  worth,  and  has  in 
vested  you  in  his  own  mind  with  the  graces  of 
person  to  correspond  with  those  of  your  char 
acter?" 

Eglantina  looked  at  him.  After  all,  she  was 
eager  to  be  persuaded.  "I  cannot  keep  it 
secret  from  him,"  she  faltered. 

"How  can  you  do  aught  else?  How  can 
you  describe  your  face  to  a  blind  man?" 

Eglantina  continued  to  regard  her  father 
with  eyes  of  painful  searching,  as  one  who 
would  discover  hope  against  conviction  and 
find  refutation  for  her  own  argument. 

"Roger  has  been  told  repeatedly,"  said  her 
father. 

Eglantina  nodded.  She  herself  had  told  him 
and  he  had  laughed  at  her. 

"And  the  telling  conveys  no  meaning  to 
him,"  said  her  father.  "What  does  beauty  or 
deformity  of  the  flesh  signify  to  a  blind  man?" 

"  I  can  see,  and  I  can  see  that  which  he  loves 
mistakenly,"  replied  Eglantina,  in  a  pitiful  voice. 

The  two  stood  facing  each  other,  both  the 
father  and  daughter  above  middle  height,  for 
Eglantina  got  her  height  from  her  father.  The 
two  faces  were  on  a  level. 

"Do  as  your  heart  dictates,  my  daughter," 
said  her  father,  "and  have  no  fear." 

96 


EGLANTINA 

The  next  day,  in  the  afternoon,  when  seated 
in  the  arbor  in  the  garden  with  her  embroidery 
work,  she  saw  Roger  coming,  walking  almost 
as  if  he  saw,  with  no  outstretching  of  feeling 
hands.  In  fact,  he  knew  his  way  well  enough 
between  the  flower-beds,  being  guided  by  their 
various  odors.  Eglantina,  watching  him  ap 
proach,  swept  a  great  bunch  of  brown  curls 
completely  over  her  disfigured  cheek,  and  sat 
so  when  he  entered. 

''Pass  all  the  other  lesser  flowers  by  until 
you  find  the  rose,"  he  said,  laughing  tenderly. 

''I  am  no  rose,"  said  Eglantina. 

"The  rose  does  not  know  she  is  herself,  els§ 
she  would  be  no  rose,"  said  Roger. 

"I  am  a  poor  mockery  of  a  rose,  from  this 
dreadful  mark  on  my  cheek,"  said  Eglantina, 
and  she  felt  as  if  she  were  about  to  die,  for  it 
seemed  to  her  that  such  brutal  frankness  must 
convince. 

But  Roger  only  laughed.  "The  rose  has  a 
scratch  from  a  thorn  on  one  of  her  petals,"  he 
returned,  "or  a  bee  has  sucked  too  greedily 
for  honey.  What  of  it?  Is  there  not  enough 
beauty  left?  There  is  no  one  in  the  whole 
world  so  beautiful  as  you,  Eglantina.  A  mark 
on  your  cheek !  What  is  a  mark  on  your  cheek 
but  a  beauty,  since  it  is  a  part  of  you?  Fret 
no  more  about  it,  sweetheart." 

97 


THE   FAIR   LAV1NIA  AND   OTHERS 

Eglantina  looked  at  him,  at  the  beautiful 
face  in  a  cloud  of  golden  beard,  at  the  sight 
less  blue  eyes,  and  she  pulled  the  curls  closer 
over  her  cheek  and  resisted  no  longer. 

It  was  then  the  first  of  September,  and  it 
was  decided  to  have  the  marriage  the  next 
month;  there  was  no  reason  why  they  should 
wait,  and  Dr.  Litchfield  was  disposed  to  has 
ten  the  wedding.  Soon  the  simple  preparations 
were  nearly  finished.  Roger's  chamber  had 
been  newly  papered  with  a  pale-green  satin 
paper,  sprinkled  with  bouquets  of  flowers. 
Roger's  wedding  suit  was  ready,  and  Eglan 
tina' s  gowrn.  The  gown  was  a  peach-blow  silk, 
and  it  lay  in  shimmering  folds  on  the  high  bed 
in  the  spare  chamber,  and  from  the  tester 
floated  the  veil,  and  a  pair  of  little  rose-colored 
slippers  toed  out  daintily  beside  the  dimity 
dresser,  and  in  a  little  box  thereon  was  a 
brooch  which  Roger  had  given  her — a  knot  of 
his  fair  hair  set  in  a  ring  of  pearls. 

One  evening,  after  a  very  warm  day,  Roger 
and  Eglantina  returned  from  a  long  walk  down 
the  country  road  and  went  into  the  house. 
They  kissed  each  other  in  the  front  entry,  then 
Roger  went  up-stairs,  in  the  dark,  and  Eglan 
tina  lighted  her  chamber  candle. 

But  her  father  called  her  again,  and  she  went 
into  the  east  parlor  as  before,  with  the  candle 

98 


EGLANTINA 

^^ 

throwing  an  upward'light  upon  her  face.  This 
time  Dr.  Litchfield  hesitated  long  before  speak 
ing,  so  long  that  she  looked  at  him  in  surprise, 
thinking  that  she  had  perhaps  not  understood, 
and  he  had  not  called  her.  "  Did  you  want  to 
see  me,  father?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  Eglantina,"  he  replied ;  but  still  he 
hesitated,  and  she  waited  in  growing  wonder 
and  alarm.  "Eglantina,"  Dr.  Litchfield  said, 
presently. 

"Yes,  father." 

"Dr.  David  Lyman  is  in  the  South  Village. 
He  has  been  attending  the  daughter  of  Squire 
Eggleston,  who  lost  her  sight  from  scarlet- 
fever,"  her  father  said,  abruptly.  Eglantina 
turned  white,  and  gave  a  quick  gasp. 

"He  will  restore  her  sight,"  said  her  father, 
and  he  paused.  Eglantina  was  silent  and  mo 
tionless.  She  stood  with  her  mouth  set  hard 
and  her  eyes  averted. 

"It  might  be  well  to  have  him  see  Roger," 
said  her  father.  He  did  not  look  at  her. 

Eglantina  turned  and  went  out  of  the  room 
without  a  word.  She  was  awake  all  night, 
pleading  pitilessly  for  and  against  herself,  as 
if  she  had  been  a  stranger.  Monstrous  as  it 
might  seem,  there  was  something  to  be  said  in 
favor  of  letting  the  physician  who  might  re 
store  Roger's  sight  pass  by,  and  keeping  her 

99 


THE    FAIR   LAVINIA   AND   OTHERS 

lover  blind  until  the  day  of  his  death.  "If 
Roger  gains  his  sight,  he  loses  love,"  she  said; 
"  and  he  is  one  who,  if  love  go  amiss,  will  come 
to  harm  in  himself."  And  that  was  quite  true, 
for  Roger  Proctor  was  a  man  to  be  made  or 
marred  by  16ve. 

"Will  he  not  lose  more  than  he  gains?" 
Eglantina  asked  herself,  and,  though  her  judg 
ment  told  her  yes,  yet  she  dared  not  trust  to 
her  judgment  when  her  inclination  so  swayed 
her.  Then,  moreover,  to  such  strength  her 
love  had  grown  that  all  the  old  guilty  secret 
gladness  over  his  blindness  was  gone,  and  in 
stead  was  a  great  tenderness  and  pity  for  her 
lover  that  he  must  go  blind  and  miss  so  much. 
"He  can  see  a-plenty  that  is  beautiful  if  he 
miss  the  beauty  in  me,"  thought  Eglantina; 
"and  who  am  I  to  say  that  no  other  woman 
besides  me  can  make  him  happy?" 

But  always  she  went  back  to  the  fear  as  to 
how  he  would  endure  the  awful  shock  when, 
after  his  eyesight  was  restored,  he  should  look 
for  the  first  time  on  her  face,  and  see  what  he 
had  loved  and  kissed.  She  thought  truly  not 
then  of  her  own  distress  and  humiliation,  but 
of  him,  and  what  he  would  suffer,  and  she  could 
not  argue  that  away.  Then  all  at  once  her 
mind  was  at  restx  for  a  great  and  unselfish, 
though  fantastic,  plan  had  occurred  to  her, 

100 


EGLANriNA 

and  she   knew  what   she   could   do   to   spare 
him. 

The  next  morning  there  was  an  expression 
in  her  face  which  dominated  all  disfigurement 
and  would  have  dominated  beauty  as  well. 

"When  will  he  come?"  she  asked  her  father, 
when  Roger  was  not  within  hearing. 

"This  afternoon,  if  I  go  for  him,"  replied  her 
father,  with  his  eyes  still  on  her  face,  "but  you 
had  best  not  tell  Roger  until  the  doctor  has 
pronounced  on  the  case.  You  had  best  not 
hold  up  hope  that  may  come  to  naught." 

"It  will  not  come  to  naught,"  she  replied; 
and  after  breakfast  she  told  Roger  that  a  doc 
tor  wras  coming  who  would  cure  his  eyes  and 
he  would  see. 

Roger  received  the  news  with  a  curious  calm 
ness  at  first,  but  as  he  reflected  a  great  joy 
grew  and  strengthened  in  his  face.  Then  he 
cried  out,  suddenly,  "Then  I  shall  see  you,  I 
shall  see  you!" 

"Yes,"  said  Eglantina. 

"Why  do  you  speak  so,  Eglantina?  Your 
voice  sounds  strange." 

There  was  a  peculiar  quality  in  Eglantina's 
voice,  a  peculiarity  of  intonation,  which  made 
it  unmistakable  among  others,  and  just  then  it 
had  disappeared. 

"Why  strange?"  said  she. 
101 


THE   FAIR   LAVINIA   AND   OTHERS 

"It  is  strange  now.  Are  you  not  glad  that 
I  am  to  see — to  see  you,  sweetheart?" 

"I  am  more  than  glad,"  replied  Eglantina. 
Then  she  went  away  hurriedly,  though  Roger 
called  wonderingly  and.  in  a  hurt  fashion  after 
her. 

That  afternoon,  before  the  doctor  came,  Eg 
lantina  sent  a  letter  to  her  cousin,  Charlotte 
Wyatt,  who  lived  in  Boston,  and  who  was  to  be 
present  at  the  wedding,  to  hasten  her  coming. 
The  two  were  great  friends,  though  Charlotte 
had  visited  Eglantina  but  once,  when  Roger 
was  away,  and  so  had  never  seen  him,  but 
Eglantina  had  often  visited  Boston,  and  the 
two  wrote  frequent  letters. 

".Come  if  you  can  in  a  fortnight's  time,  dear 
Charlotte,"  wrote  Eglantina,  "though  that  be 
a  fortnight  before  the  day  set  for  the  wedding, 
for  I  am  in  sore  trouble  and  distress  of  mind, 
and  only  you  can  comfort  and  help  me."  And 
she  wrote  not  a  word  with  regard  to  Roger's 
eyes.  And  she  did  not  mention  Charlotte's 
coming  to  Roger. 

That  afternoon  Dr.  David  Lyman  came  at 
Dr.  Litchfield's  bidding,  and  the  operation  on 
Roger's  eyes  was  performed  with  great  hope  of 
success,  though  the  result  could  not  be  cer 
tainly  known  for  the  space  of  two  weeks,  when 
Dr.  Lyman  would  return  and  the  bandages 

102 


EGLANTINA 

would  be  removed.  During  those  two  weeks 
Eglantina  nursed  Roger  tenderly,  and  let  no 
trace  of  her  own  sadness  appear.  Indeed,  she 
began  to  feel  that  she  should  have  joy  enough 
if  Roger  regained  his  sight,  even  if  she  lost  him 
thereby,  for  the  blind  man  was  full  of  delight, 
and  for  the  first  time  revealed  how  he  had 
suffered  in  his  mind  because  of  his  loss  of 
sight.  — ^ 

Then,  the  day  before  the  one  appointed  for 
the  removing  of  the  bandages,  came  Charlotte 
Wyatt,  stepping  out  of  the  stage-coach  at  the 
door — a  tall  and  stately  maiden,  who  was  held 
in  great  renown  for  her  beauty.  Charlotte 
Wyatt,  with  all  her  beauty,  bore  a  certain  family 
resemblance  to  her  cousin.  She  was  of  the 
same  height,  she  was  shaped  like  her,  she  moved 
and  spoke  like  her,  having  the  same  trick  of 
intonation  in  her  grave,  sweet  voice.  But  this 
resemblance  only  served  to  make  Eglantina's 
defects  a  more  lamentable  contrast  to  the 
other's  beauty.  It  was  like  a  perfect  and  a 
deformed  rose  on  the  same  l3ush.  The  de- 
fofmed  flower  was  the  worse  deformed  for 
being  a  rose  beside  the  other. 

That  night  the  two  girls  lay  awake  all  night 
in  bed  and  talked,  and  Eglantina  told  the  other 
her  trouble,  and  yet  not  all,  for  she  did  not  dis 
cover  to  her  the  plan  which  she  had  made. 

s  103 


THE    FAIR    LAVINIA   AND   OTHERS 

Charlotte  held  her  cousin  in  her  arms,  and  wept 
over  her,  and  pitied  her  with  a  pity  which  bore 
a  cruel  sting  in  it.  "  I  do  not  wonder  that  your 
heart  aches,  sweetheart,  for  surely  never  was 
a  man  like  Roger,  and  you  might  well  love  him 
better  blind  than  any  other  man  with  his  sight," 
said  Charlotte  Wyatt,  fervently.  She  had  not 
spoken  to  Roger,  but  she  had  peeped  into  the 
room  where  he  sat  with  his  eyes  bandaged,  with 
Eglantina  reading  to  him.  Eglantina  shrank 
from  her  suddenly  when  she  said  that.  "  What 
is  the  matter?  What  have  I  said  to  hurt  you, 
sweet?"  cried  Charlotte. 

"Nothing,  dear,"  replied  Eglantina,  and  held 
the  other  girl  close  in  her  arms. 

"I  never  loved  any  man  overmuch,  though 
so  many  have  said  that  they  loved  me,  but  I 
can  see  how  you  love  Roger,"  Charlotte  said, 
innocently. 

"  There  is  no  one  like  him,"  Eglantina  agreed, 
and  she  began  sobbing  in  a  despairing  fashion, 
and  Charlotte  strove  to  comfort  her. 

"He  will  love  you  just  the  same  when  he 
can  see,"  she  said.  "Beauty  is  but  skin  deep, 
sweetheart." 

"  I  care  not,  oh,  I  care  not,  so  he  is  not  hurt," 
sobbed  Eglantina. 

"How  you  love  him!"  whispered  the  other 
girl.  "If  he  be  not  true  to  love  like  yours,  he 

104 


EGLANTINA 

is  more  blind  when  he  sees  than  when  he  saw 


It  was  the  next  afternoon  that  the  bandages 
were  to  be  removed  from  Roger  Proctor's  eyes, 
and  it  would  then  be  known  if  the  operation 
were  a  success.  The  great  doctor  and  Eglan 
tina  's  father  and  the  nurse  were  in  the  room 
with  Roger.  Eglantina  and  Charlotte  waited 
outside.  Charlotte  was  dressed  in  a  lilac  satin 
gown,  falling  in  soft  folds  around  her  lovely 
height,  and  her  fair  hair  was  twisted  into  a 
great  knot,  from  which  fell  a  shower  of  loose 
curls  around  her  rosy  face;  and  since  she  had 
come  away  without  a  certain  tucker  of  wrought 
lace  which  she  much  affected,  Eglantina  hadv 
dressed  her  in  one  of  her  own,  taking  a  sachet 
of  lavender,  and  she  had  fastened  it  with  her 
brooch  of  Roger's  hair  set  in  pearls.  The  two 
moved  about  uneasily. 

They  listened  to  every  sound  from  the  next 
room,  the  doctor's  study,  where  Roger  and  the 
two  physicians  were,  and  presently  out  came 
Dr.  Eliphalet  Litchfield,  not  with  the  gladness 
of  his  profession  after  a  successful  operation, 
but  falteringly,  with  pitiful  eyes  upon  his 
daughter. 

"Well?"  said  Eglantina  to  him. 

"He  sees,"  replied  Dr.  Litchfield,  in  a  husky 
voice.  He  looked  hesitatingly  at  Eglantina, 

105 


THE    FAIR   LAVINIA   AND   OTHERS 

The  door  was  opened  again,  and  Dr.  David 
Lyman  looked  out.  "He  is  asking  for  your 
daughter,"  he  said  to  Eliphalet  Litchfield. 

"  Eglantina!  Eglantina!"  called  Roger's  voice, 
high  with  nervousness.  He  was  too  weak  to 
stir;  the  strain  had  been  severe,  and  he  was  of 
a  delicate  physique. 

"You  had  best  come  at  once,"  whispered  the 
doctor.  "He  has  been  under  a  great  stress, 
and  it  is  not  advisable  to  cross  him;  even  his 
sight  may  depend  upon  it." 

Eglantina  laid  a  hand  with  a  weight  of  steel 
on  her  cousin's  arm.  "Go,"  she  said. 

Charlotte  stared,  pale  and  scared. 

"Go,"  said  Eglantina. 

Dr.  Litchfield  made  a  motion  forward,  but  Eg 
lantina  stopped  him  with  a  look.  She  pushed 
Charlotte  towards  the  study  door,  and  whis 
pered  sharply  in  her  ear:  "You  heard  what  the 
doctor  said.  Don't  let  him  know.  Go." 

Charlotte  went  into  the  room  half  by  force, 
half  with  bewildered  acquiescence.  Then  the 
three  outside  heard  a  great  cry  of  rapture  from 
Roger,  and  Eglantina  went  away  hurriedly, 
leaving  the  men  looking  at  each  other. 

It    was   nearly   time   for  the   stage  -  coach. 

Eglantina  was  waiting  for  it  at  the  turn  of  the 

road.     No  one  had  seen  her  leave  the  house. 

An  hour  later  Dr.  Litchfield  found  a  letter  pinned 

106 


EGLANTINA 

to  his  cloak,  which  hung  in  the  entry.  It  was 
very  brief:  "Dear  father,  this  is  to  inform  you 
that  I  have  gone  to  Aunt  Pamela's.  Do  not 
undeceive  Roger  at  present,  and  do  not  let 
Charlotte.  Your  respectful  and  obedient  daugh 
ter  to  command,  Eglantina." 

Eglantina  had  been  with  her  aunt  Pamela 
a  week,  when  one  afternoon  came  Charlotte 
riding  in  the  doctor's  chaise,  herself  driving 
with  a  pretty  skill,  holding  the  reins  high,  slap 
ping  the  white  horse's  back  with  them,  and 
clucking  to  him  like  a  bird  to  hasten  his  pace. 
And  she,  running  into  Miss  Pamela  Litchfield's 
house,  and  finding  Eglantina  by  herself  em 
broidering  in  the  parlor,  in  the  deep  window- 
seat,  caught  her  round  the  waist  and  talked 
fast,  half  laughing  and  half  crying.  "He  will 
have  none  of  me,"  she  said.  "This  morning 
he  told  me,  with  as  near  tears  as  a  man  may, 
that  he  accounted  himself  as  worthy  of  great 
blame,  but  held  that  he  might  be  worthy  of 
more  did  he  dissemble.  This  to  me;  and  to 
my  uncle,  your  father,  he  said  more.  This  he 
said  of  me — of  me,  who  has  had  some  praise, 
whether  deserved  or  not,  for  her  looks — that  he 
was  disappointed  in  my  poor  face,  that  it  was 
not  what  he  had  deemed  it  to  be,  that  it  was 
less  fair.  And  then  I,  having  heard  what  he 
said  to  my  uncle,  and  being,  I  will  admit,  some- 
107 


THE    FAIR    LAVINIA  AND  OTHERS 

thing  taken  aback  by  such  slighting— I  told  him 
that  it  was  all  a  deception,  that  I  was  my  poor 
self  instead  of  his  beloved  Eglantina,  that  she 
had  been  unexpectedly  called  away,  and  that 
we  had  deceived  him  for  his  health's  sake;  and, 
Lord!  had  you  but  seen  how  he  brightened! 
And  now  you  must  go  to  him,  sweetheart." 

It  was  evening  when  Eglantina  and  Char 
lotte  rode  into  the  yard  of  the  Litchfield  house, 
and  the  next  morning  Eglantina  went  into  the 
east  parlor  and  stood  before  Roger  Proctor; 
and  a  sunbeam  from  the  east  window,  the  let 
tered  shutter  of  which  had  been  thrown  open, 
fell  upon  her  poor  face  with  the  monstrous 
travesty  of  a  rose  disfiguring  her  cheek;  and 
Roger  gave  one  great,  glad  cry  of  recognition, 
and  she  was  in  his  arms,  and  he  was  covering 
her  face  with  kisses,  and  looking  at  it  with 
ecstasy  as  if  it  were  the  face  of  an  angel.  "  Oh, 
Eglantina!"  he  said.  "It  is  you,  sweetheart — 
you  and  no  other!  No  other  could  have  such 
"beauty  as  thine,  the  beauty  I  have  seen  with 
my  soul,  and  now  see  with  my  twice-blessed 
eyes." 

Eglantina  lived  and  died,  and  her  long  grave 
is  in  the  graveyard  of  Litchfield  Village,  and 
at  the  head  is  a  marble  stone  on  which  are 
cut  the  verses  beginning,  "Eglantina,  tall  and 
fair." 


THE   PINK    SHAWLS 


THE    PINK   SHAWLS 


THE  two  Crosby  sisters,  Honora  and  Ellen, 
their  niece  Annette,  their  deceased  broth 
er's  daughter,  and  her  brother  Franklin  were 
all  in  the  sitting-room  the  day  before  Christ 
mas,  at  work  on  Christmas  presents.  Franklin 
was  whittling  paper-knives  out  of  whitewood, 
and  sniffling  painfully  and  dejectedly  the  while. 
He  was  only  ten,  and  out  of  school  on  account 
of  a  cold.  He  did  not  like  to  go  to  school,  but 
it  was  snowing  hard,  and  he  was  eager  to  be 
out-of-doors. 

Honora  was  crocheting  a  shawl  of  pink  wool, 
Annette  was  dressing  a  doll,  and  Ellen  was 
covering  a  pincushion  with  blue  silk.  Later 
she  intended  sticking  in  pins  in  letters  repre 
senting,  "To  Cora."  Ellen  was  a  conservative, 
and  that  which  always  had  been  seemed  the 
best  to  her.  Pincushions  made  in  such  wise 
had  been  a  fashion  of  her  departed  youth. 
Honora  crocheted  with  her  lips  set  in  a  curi- 


THE   FAIR   LAVINIA   AND   OTHERS 

ous  way  which  she  always  maintained  when 
at  work.  Annette  dressed  the  doll  listlessly. 
She  was  a  pretty  girl,  although  to  -  day  she 
looked  somewhat  wan.  A  young  man,  Harry 
Roel,  who  had  been  openly  attentive  to  her, 
had  lately  deserted  her  for  another  girl.  That 
very  afternoon  she  had  seen  them  pass  in  a 
sleigh.  She  had  said  nothing,  but  her  aunt 
Honora  had  spoken. 

"  It  seems  to  me  folks  must  be  in  an  awful 
strait  to  go  sleigh-riding  in  such  a  storm  as 
this,"  said  she,  with  an  odd  mixture  of  sympathy 
for  her  niece  and  indignation  at  the  young  man. 

Franklin  considered  it  a  good  opening  for  a 
plea  of  his  own.  He  spoke  with  a  hoarse  whine. 
"Can't  I  just  go  out  and  coast  down  Adkin's 
hill  just  twice  if  I  tie  my  tippet  over  my  ears?" 
he  asked. 

"I  rather  guess  you  can't,"  replied  his  aunt 
Honora. 

"I'll  wear  my  thick  coat,  and  something 
under  it." 

"Don't  you  say  another  word.  You  keep 
on  with  your  paper-knives." 

Franklin  applied  his  damp  handkerchief  to 
his  nose,  and  the  tears  trickled  down  his  rasped 
cheeks.  He  was  a  fair  little  boy,  and  cold  made 
ravages  in  his  appearance.  "  I'm  sick  of  these 
old  paper-knives,"  he  muttered. 

112 


THE   PINK   SHAWLS 

"  No  muttering,"  Honora  said,  sternly. 
"  Christmas  is  the  one  time  of  the  year  when  we 
ought  to  think  of  other  people  and  not  of  our 
selves.  Just  look  at  your  aunt  Ellen  and  your 
sister  and  me  working.  Maybe  we  don't  feel 
any  more  like  it  than  you  do." 

Annette,  fitting  in  a  fussy  little  sleeve  to  the 
doll's  dress,  gave  a  weary  sigh.  "That  is  so," 
she  said.  "  If  ever  I  hated  to  do  anything,  it 
was  to  dress  a  doll." 

"But  she  knows  how  tickled  little  Minnie 
Green  will  be  with  it,"  said  Honora;  "and  here 
is  your  aunt  Ellen  making  a  pincushion  for 
Cora  Abbot,  and  she  wroke  up  with  a  headache ; 
and  here  I  am  crocheting  a  shawl  to  give  away 
to  a  lady  in  Bilchester,  when  I  really  need  one 
myself.  Christmas  isn't  the  time  to  think  of 
yourself." 

"Pink  was  always  so  becoming  to  you,  too," 
said  Ellen. 

"It  used  to  be,"  said  Honora.  In  spite  of 
herself  she  could  not  resist  placing  the  fluff  of 
pink  wool  under  her  chin  and  gazing  at  herself 
in  the  glass  opposite.  Honora  was  old  and  her 
hair  was  snow  white,  but  she  had  the  tints  of 
youth  in  her  fine  skin,  and  the  pink  wool  cast  its 
roseate  hues  over  her  face  and  thick  white  locks. 

"It's  just  as  becoming  as  it  ever  was,"  said 
Ellen. 


THE   FAIR   LAVINIA  AND  OTHERS 

Honora  could  not  avoid  a  conscious  simper 
at  the  charming  reflection  of  herself.  She  had 
always  been  covertly  pleased  to  meet  herself 
in  the  glass.  "Well,"  said  she,  "I  shall  have 
to  do  without  a  pink  shawl." 

Ellen  regarded  her  with  a  troubled  expres 
sion.  "Oh,  dear  sister,"  said  she.  "I  only 
wish  I  had  thought,  for  I  could  have  got  a  pink 
shawl  for  you  as  well  as  the  present  I  have. 

"So  could  I,"  said  Annette. 

"Well,"  said  Honora,  in  a  resigned  voice, 
"  I  know  I  shall  like  what  you  have  for  me.  It 
is  only  that  I  have  always  wanted  a  pink  shawl, 
and  I  have  never  seen  the  time  when  I  felt 
K  that  I  could  conscientiously  get  one  for  my 
self." 

"You  have  made  so  many  for  other  people, 
too,"  said  Annette. 

"Yes,  I  know  I  have,"  agreed  Honora,  "but 
it  always  seemed  to  me  that  they  needed  them 
more  than  I  did.  Here  is  poor  Abby  Judd. 
She  has  just  barely  enough  money  to  live  on, 
and  she  has  the  prayer-meeting  at  her  house 
every  week  since  the  church  burned  down,  and 
she  has  the  sewing-circle  at  least  once  a  month, 
and  her  house  is  always  chilly,  and  she  really 
needs  a  dressy  shawl." 

"  You  are  always  thinking  of  somebody  else," 
said  Annette,  and  the  remark  pleased  Honora. 
114 


THE    PINK   SHAWLS 

Annette  looked  very  much  as  Honora  had  done 
at  her  age.  Her  hair  was  a  brilliant  brown, 
with  red  lights  in  it,  and  her  complexion  was 
really  wonderful.  Annette,  as  she  worked, 
cast  every  now  and  then  a  glance  out  at  the 
storm.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  constantly 
heard  sleigh-bells  ever  since  that  sleigh  with 
Harry  Roel  and  the  other  girl  had  passed. 
"It's  an  awful  storm,"  she  said,  with  a  half- 
sigh.  This  was  the  night  of  the  week — Wednes 
day — when  Harry  Roel  had  been  accustomed 
to  call,  and  she  had  always  made  a  wood  fire 
in  the  stove  in  the  best  parlor.  She  would  not 
need  to  do  that  to-night. 

The  next  morning  Franklin  went  about  car 
rying  the  presents  on  his  sled.  He  was  better, 
and  so  wrapped  up  that  he  could  scarcely  walk. 
He  had  to  carry  some  of  the  parcels  to  the  post- 
office  and  the  express-office,  and  some  to  houses 
in  the  village.  He  was  usually  quite  a  trust 
worthy  errand-boy,  but  possibly  this  morning 
the  quinine  which  he  had  taken  for  the  grippe, 
or  the  grippe  itself,  confused  his  young  mind. 
Instead  of  taking  the  pink  shawl,  which  was  en 
veloped  daintily  in  pink  tissue-paper  tied  with 
pink  ribbons,  then  enclosed  in  a  nice  white  box, 
to  the  express-office,  he  carried  it  to  Harry 
Reel's  house.  Harry  lived  with  his  widowed 
mother,  and  the  maid  who  came  to  the  door 


THE    FAIR   LAVINIA   AND    OTHERS 

and  took  the  box  could  not  read  English,  and 
she  had  no  hesitation  about  receiving  it. 

"This  is  a  Christmas  present  from  my  aunt 
Honora,"  said  Franklin. 

The  Swedish  girl  smiled  at  the  beaming  eyes 
above  the  red  tippet.  Then  she  carried  the 
package  into  the  kitchen  to  her  mistress,  who 
was  there  superintending  the  pudding.  Mrs. 
Roel  was  an  impetuous  soul,  and  had  never 
gotten  over  her  childish  delight  in  presents. 
She  did  not  look  at  the  address,  but  cut  the 
string  with  the  first  knife  at  hand.  She  un 
folded  the  pink  tissue-paper  and  shook  out  the 
shawl. 

"Oh,  what  a  pretty  shawl!"  she  cried,  "and 
it's  just  what  I  wanted,  for  I  am  going  to  have 
the  sewing-circle  next  week,  and  I've  got  a  cold." 

Then  she  spied  the  card  attached  to  the  shawl 
with  pink  ribbon,  and  read,  "To  Abby  Judd, 
with  loving  wishes  for  Christmas  and  the  New- 
year,  from  her  old  friend,  Honora  Crosby," 
and  her  face  fell. 

"Goodness!  this  isn't  mine,  after  all,"  she 
said.  "It's  for  Abby  Judd,  in  Bilchester.  I 
used  to  know  her.  She  and  Honora  Crosby 
were  always  intimate.  Well,  this  must  be  done 
up  again,  and  when  Harry  comes  in  he  must 
take  it  down  to  the  express-office." 

It  thus  happened  that  poor  Annette  Crosby 
116 


THE   PINK   SHAWLS 

heard  the  jingle  of  sleigh-bells  that  morning, 
and  she  did  not  know  that  Harry  was  carrying 
the  pink  shawl  which  her  aunt  Honora  had 
crocheted  for  Abby  Judd  to  the  express-office. 

In  due  time  Honora  received  a  letter  of 
thanks  from  Abby  Judd,  along  with  a  pretty 
little  pious  book  bound  in  white  and  gold. 
Honora  looked  very  sharply  at  the  book,  then 
she  laid  it  on  the  table  with  her  other 
gifts. 

"It  is  very  pretty,"  said  she,  "and  Abby 
was  very  kind  to  send  it."  There  was  an  odd 
tone  in  her  voice.  Franklin  and  Ellen  were  in 
the  room.  After  Franklin  went  out,  Ellen 
examined  the  book  closely,  then  she  looked  at 
her  sister. 

"  It's  one  somebody  gave  her,"  she  said.  "  I 
can  see  where  the  name  was  rubbed  out." 

"Well,  I  don't  suppose  she  could  afford  to 
buy  a  new  one,"  said  Honora,  generously. 
"She  has  an  awful  time  to  make  both  ends 
meet,  and,  of  course,  she  had  read  it.  All  I 
hope  is  that  the  one  who  gave  it  to  her  won't 
see  it." 

"That  is  so,"  said  Ellen.  "I  made  out  the 
name;  didn't  you?" 

Honora  nodded. 

"It  was  Mrs.  Addison  Roel." 

"  Yes,  Etta  Roel  was  the  name.  She  scratch- 
117 


THE   FAIR   LAVINIA   AND   OTHERS 

ed  it  out,  and  I  suppose  she  thought  nobody 
would  notice  it." 

"Well,  Mrs.  Addison  Roel  won't  be  very  apt 
to  come  in  here  now,"  said  Ellen.  » 

"That  is  so,"  assented  Honora. 

Ellen  lowered  her  voice.  She  nodded  tow 
ards  the  kitchen,  where  Annette  was  making 
some  chocolate  creams  to  please  Franklin. 
"Do  you  suppose  she  minds  much?"  she  whis 
pered. 

"If  she  does,  there  won't  nobody  know  it," 
said  Honora. 

She  was  quite  right — nobody  did  know  it. 
Time  went  on,  and  Harry  Roel  never  came  to 
see  Annette,  and  it  was  reported  that  he  was 
constant  in  his  attentions  to  the  other  girl, 
that  they  were  engaged,  but  Annette  never 
lowered  her  crest.  She  dressed  just  as  pains 
takingly  and  prettily  as  ever  She  went  every 
where.  She  did  not  in  the  least  avoid  meeting 
her  old  lover  and  his  new  sweetheart.  People 
said  that  she  did  not  care.  It  was  even  ru 
mored  that  Annette  had  dismissed  him,  and 
that  he  was  paying  attentions  to  Laura  Ames 
out  of  spite.  His  mother  heard  of  it  and  told 
him.  She  had  just  come  home  from  the  mission 
circle  one  afternoon  in  December ;  it  was  a  year 
later  than  the  first  Christmas  when  she  had 
received  Honora's  pink  shawl  by  mistake. 
118 


THE   PINK  SHAWLS 

"  I  heard  something  that  made  me  mad  this 
afternoon,"  she  said  to  her  son  when  they  sat 
together  at  the  tea-table.  Mrs.  Addison  Roel 
was  a  very  pretty  woman,  astonishingly  young 
for  her  age,  and  when  she  was  excited  color 
flushed  her  cheeks  and  her  eyes  sparkled  like 
a  girl's.  She  was  prettily  dressed,  too,  in 
a  lace -trimmed  silk  waist  and  a  black  satin 
skirt. 

"What  was  it?"  asked  Harry. 

"  Well,  I  heard  that  Annette  Crosby  had  jilted 
you,  and  that  was  the  reason  you  were  going 
with  Laura." 

Harry  paled  a  little.  He  had  inherited  his 
mother's  good  looks,  and  even  her  childishness 
of  expression.  "Well,  maybe  it  sounds  better 
to  have  it  go  so,"  he  said. 

"  I  don't  think  it  sounds  any  better  for  you," 
said  his  mother,  hotly. 

"It  sounds  better  for  Annette,"  said  Harry, 
and  suddenly  his  pale  face  flushed. 

Mrs.  Addison  Roel  looked  sharply  at  him. 
"Goodness!  you  don't  mean  to  say  that  you 
are  thinking  of  Annette  now?"  she  said. 

Harry  said  nothing. 

"Well,  I'd  stick  to  one  thing  two  minutes," 
said  his  mother. 

"  Maybe  I  am  not  the  only  one  to  be  accused 
of  that,"  said  Harry,  gloomily. 

9  119 


THE  FAIR  LAVINIA  AND  OTHERS 

"Harry  Roel!"  cried  his  mother.  " Annette 
Crosby  didn't—" 

"  Never  mind  what  she  did  or  didn't,"  Harry 
returned,  and  took  his  hat  and  went  away, 
leaving  his  mother  staring  after  him. 

"  He  didn't  half  eat  his  supper,"  she  thought; 
"and  there  was  that  chocolate  cake  he  is  so 
fond  of,  too."  She  wondered  if  Annette  Crosby 
had  really  dismissed  her  son;  she  felt  an  active 
dislike  towards  her,  aroused  by  the  mere  im 
agination  of  such  a  thing.  "  I  wonder  who  she 
thinks  she  is?"  she  thought;  and  yet  she  posi 
tively  disliked  Laura  Ames,  and  the  anticipa 
tion  of  having  to  live  with  her  had  really  caused 
her  to  lose  some  of  her  pretty,  youthful  curves. 
She  had  always  rather  looked  forward  to  liv 
ing  with  Annette,  who  was  exceedingly  sweet- 
tempered  and  a  good  housekeeper,  whereas  the 
other  girl  was  openly  called  a  spitfire,  if  she 
was  pretty,  and  she  had  the  name  of  letting 
her  mother  do  all  the  work.  There  was  no 
servant  in  the  Ames  house.  However,  the 
possibility  of  Annette's  having  treated  Harry 
badly  served  to  partly  reconcile  her  with  the 
other  girl.  She  resolved  to  ask  Laura  to  tea 
Christmas  day,  and  it  so  happened  that  Annette 
saw  Harry  drive  past  with  her  as  she  had  the 
year  before. 

The  Crosbys  had  their  gifts  all  finished  and 
1 20 


THE   PINK   SHAWLS 

despatched;  it  was  four  o'clock  in  the  after 
noon,  and  their  little  tables  were  spread  with 
those  which  they  had  received.  Honora  had 
two  which  rather  nonplussed  her.  Annette 
and  Ellen  each  presented  her  with  a  pink 
crocheted  shawl.  When  the  gifts  were  dis 
played,  and  they  saw  that  each  had  chosen 
the  same  thing  for  Honora,  they  at  first  looked 
sober,  then  they  laughed,  and  Honora  joined 
them. 

"Well,  I  declare,  I've  got  pink  shawls  now 
if  I  never  had  any  before,"  said  she. 

"It  all  happened  because  I  went  to  that 
church  fair  when  I  was  in  Norcross,"  said 
Annette.  She  had  been  visiting  the  married 
friend  for  whose  little  girl  she  had  dressed  the 
doll  the  preceding  Christmas.  She  had  been  a 
little  out  of  health,  and  they  had  thought  a 
change  might  benefit  her.  "I  happened  to 
see  that  shawl  at  the  fair,"  said  Annette,  "and 
I  knew  it  was  just  the  shade  Aunt  Honora  liked, 
so  I  bought  it.  I  was  going  to  crochet  one, 
but  I  didn't  feel  quite  up  to  it,  and  I  thought 
this  would  do  just  as  well." 

"  I  didn't  dream  you  were  going  to  give  her 
a  pink  shawl  or  I  would  have  said  something  to 
you  about  it,"  said  Ellen.  "I  had  made  up 
my  mind  to  give  her  one,  but  you  know  I  can't 
crochet,  and  I  happened  to  see  this  one  in  the 

121 


THE   FAIR   LAVINIA   AND    OTHERS 

Woman's  Exchange  in  Winchester  last  Novem 
ber  when  I  went  there  shopping  with  Mrs. 
Green;  so  I  got  it.  I've  had  it  hidden  away 
ever  since.  I  wish  they  weren't  both  the  same 
stitch." 

"Never  mind.  I  don't  care  anything  about 
that,"  said  Honora.  "I- always  thought  this 
was  the  prettiest  stitch  there  was,  and  I  am 
delighted  with  them.  It  is  a  great  deal  nicer 
to  have  two,  because  I  shall  feel  that  I  can 
wear  them  all  I  want  to.  If  I  had  only  one,  I 
dare  say  I  should  have  kept  it  done  up  in  a 
towel  and  hardly  ever  worn  it." 

"Well,  there  is  something  in  that,"  agreed 
Ellen.  She  looked  admiringly  at  her  sister, 
who  threw  one  of  the  shawls  over  her  shoulder. 

However,  as  she  sat  beside  the  window,  a 
boy  came  to  the  door  and  left  a  package  for 
her,  and  when  it  was  opened  her  face  changed. 
"I  declare,  if  Mrs.  John  Eggleston  hasn't  sent 
me  another  pink  shawl!"  said  Honora. 

"And  it  is  the  same  stitch,"  said  Ellen. 

Annette,  in  spite  of  her  troubles,  was  young, 
and  had  a  sense  of  humor.  She  sank  into  a 
chair  and  doubled  over  with  laughter.  In  a 
moment  Honora  and  Ellen  joined  her. 

Honora  had  a  dainty  little  note  enclosing  a 
Christmas  card,  and  she  read  it.  "  At  all  events, 
Mrs.  Eggleston  is  honest,"  she  said.  "  She  tells 
122 


THE    PINK   SHAWLS 

me  right  out  that  she  had  this  shawl  sent  her 
three  years  ago  from  a  friend,  and  she  had 
never  worn  it,  and  she  sends  it  to  me  with 
Christmas  greetings,  because  she  heard  me  say 
once  that  I  wished  I  had  a  pink  shawl." 

"Yes,  she  is  honest,"  said  Ellen.  "Maria 
Eggleston  always  did  speak  right  out." 

"Well,  I  declare!"  said  Honora,  looking  at 
the  shawl  with  an  odd  expression. 

"You  will  have  to  wear  pink  shawls  morn 
ing,  noon,  and  night,"  said  Annette. 

It  was  not  long  after  that  when  Franklin 
came  home;  he  had  been  sent  to  the  office  for 
the  night  mail,  and  he  brought  several  pack 
ages,  evidently  presents  for  the  two  aunts  and 
the  niece.  Honora  had  two.  One  she  opened 
at  once. 

"What  a  lovely  dolly!"  said  she.  "Cora 
sent  it  to  me." 

"What  is  in  your  other  package?"  asked 
Annette. 

Honora  hesitated.  She  sat  looking  at  the  un 
opened  package  in  her  lap  with  an  expression 
of  chagrin,  amusement,  and  distress.  She  had 
caught  a  glimpse  of  rose-color  through  one  end 
of  the  parcel.  It  was  not  very  carefully  tied  up. 

"I  declare,  it  looks  like — "  began  Ellen. 

"I  do  believe  it  is,"  said  Annette,  with  a 
shriek  of  laughter. 

123 


THE   FAIR    LAVINIA   AND    OTHERS 

Honora  lifted  the  parcel.  "It  is  light  and 
soft,"  said  she,  in  a  resigned  voice. 

Then  Annette  caught  sight  of  the  pink  color 
at  the  end.  "It  is!  it  is!"  she  cried. 

Honora  opened  the  parcel  and  shook  out  an- 
othjr  pink  shawl. 

"Thank  the  Lord,  it  is  a  different  stitch," 
said  Ellen,  with  a  gasp. 

"Ellen,  you  ought  to  be  ashamed,  bringing 
the  Lord  into  it,"  said  Honora,  reproachfully. 

"Well,  I  can't  help  it.  I  do  feel  thankful, 
<  and  I  don't  see  any  sin  in  being  thankful  for 
little  things  as  well  as  big  ones,"  said  Ellen. 

Then  they  all  looked  at  the  shawl  and  laugh 
ed.  Franklin  was  a  little  bewildered.  He  did 
not  quite  understand  what  the  laughter  was 
about. 

"Aunt  Honora  has  got  four  pink  shawls," 
explained  Annette  to  him. 

Then  Franklin  bent  over  with  laughter. 
"Well,  she's  going  to  have  another,"  said  he. 
"Willy  Bennet's  mother  is  going  to  give  Aunt 
Honora  a  pink  shawl.  I  know,  because  Willy's 
got  a  cold  and  can't  come  to  bring  it  over, 
and  Mrs.  Bennet  wanted  me  to  come  over  after 
supper  and  get  it.  She  hadn't  got  it  done  up. 
Willy's  mother  said  she  heard  Aunt  Honora 
say  last  year  that  she  wanted  a  pink  shawl,  and 
she  made  up  her  mind  she  should  have  one." 
124 


THE    PINK   SHAWLS 

"I  wonder  if  she  made  it  herself?"  said 
Annette. 

"She  couldn't  have,"  said  Ellen.  "Mrs. 
Bennet  doesn't  know  how  to  crochet,  I  know." 

"I  remember  saying  to  Mrs.  Bennet  that  I 
wanted  a  pink  shawl,"  remarked  Honora,  still 
with  that  queer  expression. 

"Good  land!  five  pink  shawls,"  said  Ellen. 

"Maybe  you  will  have  another,"  said  An 
nette.  "There  is  a  letter  you  haven't  opened, 
Aunt  Honora." 

"  Thank  the  Lord,  there  can't  be  a  pink  shawl 
in  that,  anyhow,"  said  Ellen. 

Honora  opened  the  letter.     Then  she  laughed. 
"There  is  something  about  a  pink  shawl  in  it, 
anyhow,"   said  she.     "It's  from  Sarah  Mills, 
and  she  was  always  honest,  too.     She  says  she 
has  had  a  pink  shawl  sent  her  for  a  Christmas   / 
present,  but  she  never  wears  pink,  because  it  ^ 
makes  her  look  yellow;  she  doesn't  say  who 
sent  it;    so    she  is    sending  it  to  me  by  ex 
press." 

"I  begin  to  feel  nervous,"  said  Ellen. 

"Yes,  there  is  something  awful  about  so 
many  pink  shawls,"  said  Annette.  Then  she 
laughed  again,  her  rather  hysterical  laugh. 
She  was  really  very  unhappy.  She  did  not  get 
over  her  unhappiness  about  Harry  Roel,  al 
though  she  held  her  head  high. 
I25 


THE   FAIR   LAVINIA   AND    OTHERS 

"Why  don't  you  have  a  rummage  sale  and 
get  rid  of  them?"  said  Franklin. 

"  Franklin  Crosby,  I  am  ashamed  of  you," 
said  Honora;  "  a  rummage  sale  of  presents  which 
were  given  me  by  my  friends!  You  must  re 
member  that  when  Anything  is  given  you  there 
is  something  sacreo.  about  it,  because  it  is  not 
only  the  thing  itself,  but  the  love  and  kindness 
that  go  with  it  from  the  giver,  and  it  isn't  any 
thing  to  be  treated  lightly  or  to  be  made  fun 
of.  Everything  I  have  ever  had  given  me 
since  I  was  a  girl  I  have  treasured  up,  and  I 
wouldn't  part  with  them  for  any  money,  even 
if  they  don't  happen  to  be  quite  what  I  need. 
The  need  is  not  the  main  thing." 

Franklin  was  looking  hard  at  a  book  which 
he  himself  had  just  received.  "Well,  I  sup 
pose  I'll  have  to  treasure  up  this  book,"  said 
he.  "I  had  one  just  like  it  year  before  last. 
I  don't  want  to  read  it,  so  I  suppose  I'll  have 
to  treasure  it." 

"Of  course  you  will,"  said  his  aunt,  severely, 
1  'and  you  must  remember  that  you  treasure 
up  not  only  the  book  but  your  teacher's  Jdnd 
thought  of  you." 

"Yes'm,"  said  Franklin,  meekly,  with  in 
ward  reservations.  "  She  gave  Willy  Bennet  a 
great  box  of  candy,"  said  he.  "He's  teacher's 
favorite." 

126 


THE   PINK   SHAWLS 

"Nonsense!  Miss  Lowny  is  a  good  woman, 
and  she  hasn't  any  favorites,"  said  his  aunt 
Honora,  "and  the  book  cost  probably  more 
than  the  candy." 

"No,  it  didn't,"  said  Franklin,  "for  that 
candy  is  fifty  cents  a  pound,  and  there  were 
two  pounds  of  it,  and  they  are  selling  books 
just  like  this  for  twenty- nine  cents  at  White 
&  Adams's.  I  saw  'em  in  the  window  my  own 
self  yesterday." 

"Franklin  Crosby,  aren't  you  ashamed  of 
yourself?"  cried  his  aunts  and  sister  as  one. 

"I  don't  see  why,"  returned  Franklin,  stout 
ly.  He  had  very  good  reasoning  powers  for 
his  age.  "I  don't  see  why  kind  thoughts  and 
a  dollar  ain't  more  than  kind  thoughts  and 
twenty-nine  cents.  So  there  1" 

"Franklin,  you  can  go  out  to  the  woodshed 
and  bring  in  some  wood  and  start  up  the  fire 
in  the  kitchen  stove.  It  is  almost  time  for  sup 
per,  and  let  me  hear  no  more  of  such  talk," 
said  Honora,  sternly. 

However,  she  could  not  quite  make  up  her 
mind  to  wear  the  dainty  rose-colored  things  as 
often  as  she  had  planned.  It  happened  that 
all  six  shawls,  were  for  the  most  of  the  time  pack 
ed  carefully  away,  each  folded  in  a  clean  white 
towel,  and  that  she  only  wore  one,  scented 
strongly  with  camphor,  on  a  state  occasion. 

127 


THE   FAIR    LAVINIA   AND   OTHERS 

When  the  next  Christmas  came,  not  one  shawl 
was  the  worse  for  wear. 

"  I  hope  to  goodness  you  won't  get  any  more 
pink  shawls  this  Christmas,"  said  Ellen.  The 
two  sisters  and  Annette  were,  as  usual  the  day 
before  Christmas,  engaged  in  finishing  up  some 
presents  and  packing  others  to  be  sent.  Frank 
lin  had  some  Christmas  duties  which  were  much 
more  acceptable  to  him  than  usual.  He  had 
developed  an  amazing  ability  for  a  boy  in 
making  candy,  and  the  fragrant  fumes  of  his 
concoctions  filled  the  house. 

Honora  was  crocheting,  putting  the  last 
stitches  to  a  head-tie  for  Abby  Judd. 

Ellen  was  finishing  a  centre-piece,  and  An 
nette  was  tying  up  parcels  in  dainty  white  pa 
per  with  ribbons  and  writing  cards  with  loving 
Christmas  messages.  Annette  had  grown  dis 
tinctly  wan  and  thin,  although  she  was  still 
pretty.  She  had  heard  that  very  morning 
that  Harry  Roel  was  to  be  married  in  the 
spring.  The  reflection  of  that  seemed  to  be 
pricking  her  heart  all  the  time  while  she  was 
doing  up  the  dainty  parcels,  but  she  forced 
herself  to  talk  and  laugh  as  usual.  She  was 
prettily  dressed,  too.  She  wore  a  pink  cash 
mere  house-dress  which  she  had  made  herself, 
and  which  suited  her  wonderfully.  Her  aunt 

128 


THE   PINK   SHAWLS 

Honora  had  looked  at  her  with  a  little  surprise 
when,  after  the  dinner  dishes  were  cleared 
away,  she  had  appeared  in  that  gown  and 
settled  down  to  her  afternoon  work  on  the 
Christmas  presents. 

''Do  you  expect  anybody?"  she  asked. 

"No,"  replied  Annette.     "Why?" 

"Why,  you  are  so  dressed  up." 

Annette  laughed.  Her  thin,  sweet  face,  un 
der  her  soft  puffs  of  brown  hair,  flushed.  "  Oh, 
I  just  took  a  notion  to  put  this  dress  on," 
said  she.  She  did  not  own  the  truth,  that  she 
wore  the  dress  from  a  species  of  self-defiance. 
Harry  Roel  had  always  been  accustomed  to 
come  Christmas  eve,  and  she  had  considered 
that,  if  things  were  as  they  had  been,  she 
would  have  worn  that  pretty  pink  dress. 
Then  she  said  to  herself,  "  Well^  I  will  wear 
the  dress,  anyhow."  Therefore  she  had  put 
it  on. 

She  felt  her  aunts  looking  at  each  other  with 
wonder  and  some  suspicion,  but  she  pretended 
not  to  notice  it. 

"I  think  you  had  better  put  on  an  apron, 
anyhow,  with  that  dress,"  her  aunt  Honora 
said,  finally. 

Annette  obediently  got  one  of  her  aunt's 
aprons  from  the  secretary  drawer  and  tied  it 
around  her  waist.  It  was  of  a  sheer  white 

129 


THE   FAIR    LAVINIA   AND  OTHERS 

material,  and  the  pink  of  her  gown  showed 
faintly  through  it. 

It  was  about  four  o'clock  when  a  boy  was 
seen  racing  past  the  windows.  He  ran  so  fast 
that  he  was  not  seen  distinctly  by  any  of  them. 

It  was  not  two  seconds  before  the  flying 
figure  again  passed  the  window,  and  Franklin 
entered  with  a  neat  parcel. 

"  Here  is  something  Gus  Appleby  brought  for 
Aunt  Honora,"  said  he. 

Honora  took  it,  and  the  others  gathered 
around. 

"I  wonder  what  it  is,  and  who  sent  it?"  said 
Annette. 

"Another  pink  shawl,  perhaps,"  said  Ellen. 
"  Honora  hasn't  had  one  this  year  so  far." 

Honora  opened  the  nice  white  parcel,  and 
there  was  disclosed  an  inner  parcel  of  white 
tissue-paper  tied  with  pink  ribbon.  Through 
the  tissue-paper  a  rosy  gleam  was  evident. 

"I  declare,  it  is  another  pink  shawl,"  said 
Annette. 

Honora  untied  the  dainty  pink  bow,  unrolled 
the  tissue-paper,  and  slowly  shook  out  the  pink 
shawl.  She  laughed  a  little,  then  she  looked 
rather  sober. 

"Who  sent  this  one?"  said  Ellen. 

Honora  took  up  a  card  which  was  tied  to 
the  shawl  with  a  bit  of  narrow  pink  ribbon. 
130 


THE   PINK  SHAWLS 

'"Christmas  greetings  from  Caroline  Roel,'" 
she  read.  Annette  turned  pale. 

"I  shouldn't  have  thought  she  would  have 
had  the  face!"  gasped  Ellen. 

Annette  said  nothing.  She  turned  again  to 
the  table  where  were  the  parcels  which  she  was 
tying  up,  and  she  began  working  on  them  with 
her  mouth  shut  tightly. 

Meanwhile  Honora  was  closely  examining 
the  pink  shawl  in  a  grim  silence.  She  opened 
her  mouth  as  if  to  speak,  then  she  closed  it 
again;  then  her  desire  to  reveal  something  was 
too  much  for  her.  "Franklin,  go  out  in  the 
kitchen,"  said  she,  sharply.  "I  think  that 
candy  is  catching  on." 

When  the  door  had  closed  behind  the  boy 
she  turned  to  her  sister  and  her  niece.  "Do 
you  want  me  to  tell  you  something?"  said  she. 

"For  goodness'  sake,  what  is  it,  Honora?" 
asked  Ellen,  and  Annette  turned  a  pale,  in 
quiring  face  from  her  parcels. 

"Well,"  said  Honora,  "I  thought  at  first  I 
wouldn't  speak,  but  I  guess  I  can't  help  it. 
This  is  the  very  identical  shawl  I  sent  to  Abby 
Judd  two  years  ago." 

Ellen  gasped.  "Why,  Honora,  how  do  you 
know?" 

"I  know,"  replied  Honora,  conclusively. 

"But  how?" 


THE   FAIR   LAVINIA   AND    OTHERS 

J  "I  know.  I  made  a  wrong  stitch  in  the 
lower  left-hand  corner,  and  I  have  some  of  the 
wool  left,  too." 

"I  don't  believe  it." 

Honora  went  majestically  over  to  the  sec 
retary.  She  took  out  of  the  lowest  drawer  a 
neat  little  parcel  labelled,  "  Pink  wool  left  from 
Abby  Judd's  shawl."  "Look,"  said  she. 

"Yes,  it  is  the  same  shade,"  said  Ellen. 
"Goodness!" 

"But  how  on  earth  did  Mrs.  Roel  get  hold 
of  it?"  asked  Ellen,  in  a  bewildered  fashion. 

"I  know,"  said  Honora,  shortly. 

"How?" 

"Abby  Judd  gave  it  to  her  for  a  Christmas 
present  last  year." 

"My  land!"  exclaimed  Ellen,  gazing  blankly 
at  her  sister. 

"It's  so,"  said  Honora. 

"Why,  I  can't  believe  it." 

"I  can't  help  it  whether  you  believe  it  or 
not;  it's  so." 

Just  then  there  was  a  ring  at  the  front  door 
bell,  and  a  sudden  hush  pervaded  the  room. 

"There's  somebody  at  the  door,"  whispered 
Ellen,  agitatedly.  She  began  gathering  up 
scraps  of  ribbons  and  strings  which  littered 
the  floor  and  thrusting  them  into  the  adjoin 
ing  bedroom.  Honora  assisted.  "This  room 

132 


THE   PINK   SHAWLS 

looks  as  if  it  were  going  to  ride  out,"  said  she, 
"but  whoever  it  is  has  got  to  come  in  here. 
The  parlor  isn't  warm  enough."  Annette  hur 
riedly  straightened  the  things  on  the  table 
where  she  was  working.  Honora  peeked  out 
of  the  side  window.  "It's  she,"  said  she,  in 
a  whisper. 

"Who?"  whispered  Ellen. 

"Mrs.  Roel." 

Annette  made  a  motion  as  if  to  run  from 
the  room,  then  she  tied  a  little  blue  bow  on 
a  package  resolutely. 

Honora  glanced  at  Annette.  "I'll  go  to  the 
door,"  said  she,  and  just  as  she  started  the 
bell  rang  again.  Presently  she  ushered  in  Mrs. 
Roel,  who  looked  fluttered  and  embarrassed. 
She  did  not  accept  the  offer  of  the  best  rocking- 
chair. 

"No,  thank  you,"  said  she.  "I  can't  stop, 
but  I  felt  as  if  I  must  come  over."  She  stopped 
and  hesitated,  and  her  pretty,  middle-aged  face, 
looking  forth  from  the  folds  of  a  blue  worsted 
head-tie,  flushed  a  deep  pink.  "I  felt  as  if 
I  must  come  and — explain,"  she  said  again. 
Then  she  again  stopped  and  hesitated,  and  her 
face  was  blazing.  She  glanced  at  the  pink 
shawl  on  Honora's  table.  "  I  don't  know  what 
you  thought,"  she  stammered,  "and  I — I— 
felt  as  if  I  had  better  come  right  over  here  and 


THE   FAIR   LAVINIA   AND    OTHERS 

tell  you  the  whole  story.  I  felt  as  if  maybe  I 
wasn't  quite  straightforward,  but  I  didn't  want 
anybody  else  blamed,  and  I  don't  know  now, 
but — well,  I  can't  help  it;  I'm  going  to  tell 
you."  She  addressed  herself  directly  to  Ho- 
nora,  and  spoke  rapidly.  "Well,"  said  she, 
"two  years  ago  last  Christmas  your  nephew 
brought  that  shawl  to  my  house  by  mistake. 
I  opened  it  before  I  saw  the  direction  on  the 
wrapper.  When  I  saw  it  afterwards  I  did  it 
right  up  again,  and  my  son  carried  it  to  the 
express-office  and  sent  it  where  it  was  meant 
to  go;  and  then  the  next  Christmas  Hannah 
Mills  must  have  had  it  sent  to  her  for  a  present 
from  Abby  Judd;  at  least,  that's  the  way  I 
reasoned  it  out ;  and  this  year — Hannah  and  I 
always  exchange  presents — she  sent  it  to  me. 
Hannah  meant  all  right.  She  never  wore  pink ; 
it  always  made  her  .Look  ...yellow;  and  I  don't 
believe  either  she  or  Abby  Judd  ever  had  this 
shawl  on  their  backs.  It  has  been  kept  just 
as  nice,  and  it's  all  scented  with1  camphor.  You 
can  smell  the  camphor,  though  there  was  a  real 
strong  sachet  in  with  it.  I  kept  the  sachet. 
Well,  when  I  got  it  I  knew  it  the  very  minute 
I  set  my  eyes  on  it.  I  never  saw  such  a  shade 
of  pink  before,  for  one  thing,  and  I  always  did 
carry  colors  in  my  eyes  very  wrell;  and  then 
there  was  another  thing.  I  always  notice  every 


THE   PINK  SHAWLS 

little  thing,  and  I  happened  to  notice  it  when 
I  saw  it  first — a  little  tiny  bit  of  white  in  the 
pink  at  the  neck;  you  know  how  it  will  happen " 
so  sometimes.  I  suppose  the  dye  don't  take, 
and  I  knew  it  was  the  same  shawl.  And  I'll 
own  up  I  felt  kind  of  mad  at  first.  There  I'd 
worked  and  made  an  afghan  for  Hannah,  and 
she  had  sent  me  a  shawl  that  somebody  else 
had  given  her;  and  as  for  Abby  Judd,  I  didn't 
think  much  of  her  giving  it  away,  either.  But 
my  first  thought  was  that  I  wouldn't  tell  on 
them,  that  I'd  just  see  to  it  that  you  had 
your  shawl  back  again.  I  thought  maybe  you 
wouldn't  know  it  was  your  shawl.  So  I  called 
in  the  Appleby  boy  and  gave  him  five  cents 
for  bringing  it  over.  And  then  I  got  to  think 
ing  it  over,  and  I  felt  dreadful  mean,  and  as 
if  you  wouldn't  know  what  to  make  of  it;  and 
I  began  to  think  that  Abby  and  Hannah  meant, 
all  right,  and  Hannah  always  did  look  as 
yellow  as  saffron_in  pink,  and  I  dare  say 
Abby  Judd  does,  too  —  she's  something  the  -J 
same  complexion  —  and  I  thought  I'd  come 
over  and  make  a  clean  breast  of  the  whole 
thing." 

Annette,  very  pale,  continued  tying  her  par 
cels,  but,  in  spite  of  her  pallor  and  the  shock  of 
having  Harry's  mother  in  the  house,  her  mouth 
twitched  a  little.  Honora  looked  at  the  shawl, 


THE    FAIR    LAVINIA  AND   OTHERS 

then  at  Mrs.  Roel,  with  an  inexplicable  face; 
then  she  laughed. 

"It's  all  right,"  said  she,  "but  I  wish  you'd 
keep  the  shawl,  Mrs.  Roel." 

"No;  you  keep  it  and  wear  it  yourself." 

Then  Ellen  laughed.  "Land!  I  don't  see 
how  she's  going  to,"  said  she,  "not  if  she  lives 
to  be  a  hundred;  she's  got  six  more  pink  shawls 
she  had  given  her  last  Christmas." 

"Good  land!"  cried  Mrs.  Roel. 

"Do  take  it  and  keep  it,"  said  Honora.  "I 
know  pink  must  be  real  becoming  to  you." 

"  Yes,  it  always  was  becoming,"  admitted  Mrs. 
Roel.  "  It  never  made  me  look  yellow,  but — " 

"  You've  got  to  take  this  shawl  or  I  shall  feel 
real  hurt,"  said  Honora.  She  tried  to  speak 
pleasantly,  but  her  manner  was  a  little  stiff. 
She  could  not  help  thinking  how  Harry  Roel 
had  treated  Annette. 

"Well,  to  tell  the  truth,"  said  Mrs.  Roel, 
"  when  that  shawl  came,  two  years  ago,  it  did 
look  so  pretty,  and  I  tried  it  on,  and  it  was  so 
becoming  that  I  sent  right  away  for  some  wors 
ted  and  made  myself  one.  I  always  loved  to 
crochet.  And  I'v#  kept  it  real  nice,  so  it  is 
just  as  good  as  new.  But  I  thank  you  just  as 
much." 

"Of  course,  then,  you  don't  want  this,"  said 
Honora. 

136 


THE    PINK   SHAWLS 

"I  thank  you  just  as  much  as  if  I  took  it," 
said  Mrs.  Roel.  She  was  going  out,  with  a  re 
mark  about  the  weather  to  make  her  exit  easy 
and  graceful,  when  she  stopped  as  if  she  had 
made  a  sudden  resolution,  and  turned  upon 
Annette.  "Well,"  said  she,  "as  long  as  I  am 
here  I  may  as  well  have  it  out,  and  I  suppose 
your  aunts  know  all  about  it.  What  made 
you  treat  my  son  so  awful  mean?" 

Annette  looked  at  her.  She  blushed  first, 
then  she  looked  ready  to  faint.  "I  don't 
know  what  you  mean,"  she  said. 

"Yes,  you  do;  you  needn't  pretend  you 
don't." 

'  *  I  don't, ' '  said  Annette.  Then  she  gave  way. 
Her  nerves  were  strained  to  the  utmost.  She 
sank  upon  a  chair  and  began  to  weep. 

Her  aunt  Honora  came  to  her  rescue.  She 
looked  fiercely  at  Mrs.  Roel. 

"When  it  comes  to  treating  mean,"  said  she, 
"there  may  be  two  ways  of  looking  at  it." 

"Don't,  Aunt  Honora,"  sobbed  Annette. 

"Yes,  I  am  going  to  have  it  out,  now  it  is 
begun,"  said  Honora.  "When  it  comes  to  ac 
cusing  you  of  treating  Harry  Roel  mean,  I  am 
going  to  say  something.  I  call  it  treating  a 
girl  pretty  mean  when  a  young  man  comes  to 
see  her  as  steady  as  your  son  came  to  see  An 
nette,  and  then  goes  with  another  girl  right 
i37 


THE   FAIR   LAV1NIA  AND    OTHERS 

before  her  face  and  eyes,  without  her  giving 
him  any  reason." 

"She  did  give  him  reason,"  declared  Mrs. 
Roel.  "  She  gave  him  a  good  deal  of  reason — 
reason  enough  for  any  young  man  if  he  had  a 
mite  of  pride." 

"I'd  like  to  know  what?"  said  Honora,  and 
even  Annette  stared  inquiringly  over  her 
handkerchief  at  Mrs.  Roel. 

"I  call  it  reason  enough,"  said  Mrs.  Roel, 
"  when  a  young  man  who  has  been  going  with 
a  girl  the  way  my  son  Harry  had  been  going 
with  Annette  sees  her  coming  out  of  a  store 
with  another  young  man — " 

"What  young  man?"  interpolated  Annette, 
curious  in  spite  of  herself. 

"John  Appleby.  You  needn't  pretend  you 
have  forgotten." 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  and  I  have 
forgotten,"  Annette  said,  brokenly. 

"Well,  my  son  hasn't  forgotten.  He  saw 
you  coming  out  of  Rogers  &  Gray's  with  John 
Appleby,  and  you  had  a  little  package,  and 
when  he  asked  you  what  it  was  you  just  laughed 
and  wouldn't  tell  him,  and  made  him  think  it 
was  something  John  had  bought  for  you — it 
was  two  weeks  before  Christmas — and  there 
you  were  as  good  as  engaged  to  my  son." 

Annette  completely  lowered  her  handker- 
138 


THE   PINK   SHAWLS 

chief.  She  looked  brighter,  although  her  eyes 
were  still  brimming  with  tears.  "  I  do  remem 
ber  now,"  she  said,  "but  I  have  never  thought 
of  it  since." 

"Well,  my  son  has  thought  of  it  a  good  deal, 
I  can  tell  you  that." 

"  I  never  thought  of  it.  I  did  it  just  to  tease 
him." 

"Some  folks  don't  take  to  teasing  easy," 
said  Mrs.  Roel.  "My  son  is  one  who  doesn't. 
He  takes  everything  serious." 

"The  package  was  just  pink  worsted  that 
Aunt  Honora  sent  me  for,  to  finish  that  pink 
shawl,"  said  Annette,  and  in  spite  of  herself 
she  laughed. 

"Well,"  said  Honora,  with  acrimony,  "your 
son  consoled  himself  pretty  quick.  I  don't 
see  as  he  has  much  reason  to  find  any  fault." 

"Who  says  he  consoled  himself?" 

"Well,  I  should  think  he  did,  if  he  is  going 
to  marry  that  other  girl  in  the  spring." 

"He  isn't  going  to  marry  her.  She's  going 
to  marry  a  man  out  West." 

"So  she's  given  him  the  mitten?"  said 
Honora. 

"  No,  she  hasn't,"  returned  Mrs.  Roel,  angrily. 
"My  son  doesn't  take  mittens.  He  was  never 
in  earnest  in  going  with  her,  and  she  knew  he 
wasn't,  and  he  knew  he  wasn't.  He  knew  all 


THE   FAIR   LAVINIA   AND   OTHERS 

the  time  about  that  other  man  out  West.  He 
has  felt  used  up  over  the  whole  thing,"  said 
she.  "He  didn't  think  that  Annette  could 
treat  him  so." 

"  I  don't  see  that  Annette  has  done  anything 
so  very  much  out  of  the  way,"  said  Honora. 
"It  looks  to  me  as  if  all  the  trouble  was  your 
son's  having  a  faculty  of  bringing  his  foot  down 
on  a  fly  as  if  it  were  a  sledge-hammer  on  a 
rattlesnake.  If  a  man  can't  take  a  little  joke, 
why,  he's  got  to  take  the  consequences." 

"  Harry  always  took  things  just  as  they  were 
said,"  returned  his  mother,  but  her  face  was 
much  softer.  She  looked  at  Annette.  "  Are  you 
going  to  be  at  home  this  evening?"  said  she. 

Annette  colored.  "I  am  always  at  home," 
she  replied,  in  a  low  voice. 
"  ~Mrs.  Roel  turned  again  to  Honora.  "  It's 
queer,  but  it  does  seem  as  if  that_shawl  was  at 
the  root  of  a  good  deal,"  said  she;  "  I  hope  you 
don't  think  I  did  anything  out  of  the  way  com 
ing  to  you  about  it." 

"I  think  you  did  just  right,"  said  Honora. 

That  evening  after  supper  Annette  made  up 
a  fire  in  the  parlor  stove.  Her  face  had  changed 
wonderfully  in  a  short  time.  She  looked  years 
younger.  Irrepressible  dimples  showed  in  her 
pink  cheeks.  She  fastened  a  little  pjnk  rosette 
in  her  brown  hair.  She  was  fairly  glowing  and 
140 


THE   PINK   SHAWLS 

blooming  with  youth  and  happiness.  About 
eight  o'clock  the  door-bell  rang,  and  she  went 
to  the  door.  Then  voices  were  heard  in  the 
hall,  and  the  parlor  door  closed. 

''It's  he,"  said  Honora. 

"Yes,  it  is,"  said  Ellen.  "I  am  glad;  the 
poor  child  has  tried  to  make  the  best  of  it,  but 
she's  been  real  low  in  her  mind,  and  she  has 
lost  flesh.  Ellen  was  examining  happily  a 
handkerchief  which  she  had  just  received  in 
the  mail  from  Hannah  Mills.  "It's  real  fine," 
said  she.  "  If  there's  anything  I  do  like,  it's 
a  real  nice,  fine  pocket-handkerchief." 

Franklin    was   eating   one   of   his   chocolate  „ 
caramels,  and  enjoying  intensely  the  sweet  on 
his  tongue. 

Honora  looked  at  the  pink  shawl  which  was 
lying  in  a  rosy  fluff  on  the  table  by  her  side.  ' '  It 
seems  to  me  this  room  is  kind  of  chilly,"  s 
she, "  and  I've  a  good  mind  to  put  that  shawl  on. " 

"I  would,"  said  Ellen. 

"I  guess  I'll  just  wear  it  and  get  the  good 
of  it,"  said  Honora. 

"I  would,  so  long  as  I  had  so  many  laid 
away,"  said  Ellen. 

Honora  took  the  shawl  and  put  it  over  her 
shoulders.  Then  she  looked  at  her  sister  and 
began  to  speak,  and  hesitated. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Ellen. 
141 


THE   FAIR    LAVINIA   AND   OTHERS 

"Will  you  promise  me  that  you  will  never 
tell  as  long  as  you  live  if  I  tell  you  something, 
Ellen  Crosby?"  said  Honora. 

Ellen  looked  wonderingly  at  her.  "  Of  course 
I  won't  tell,"  said  she.  "What  is  it,  Honora?" 

"  Nothing,  only  I  made  every  one  of  those 
pink  shawls  myself,"  said  Honora. 

"Honora  Crosby!" 

"Yes,  I  did.  I  know  I  am  right.  I  can't 
quite  see  how  some  of  them  got  back  to  me, 
but  they  did." 

"Good  land!" 

"  It's  so.  I  don't  suppose  I  shall  ever  know 
the  true  inside  of  it ;  but  there's  one  thing  sure 
— my  friends  did  want  to  give  me  something  I 
wanted  for  a  Christmas  present,  if  they  only 
J  knew  what  it  was,  and  that's  worth  more  than 
anything  else." 

Ellen  stared,  then  she  laughed,  but  Honora, 
in  her  pink  shawl,  did  not  seem  amused  at  all. 
There  was  the  faintest  murmur  of  voices  from 
the  parlor.     Honora  had  never  had  any  love- 
affair  of  her  own,  but  as  she  listened  to  that 
"  jlow  murmur  of  Annette  and  her  lover,  her  face 
rtl«/*$ook  on  the  expression  which  it  might  have 
!worn  had  she  been  in  Annette's  place.     And 
the  pink  shawl  cast  a  rosy  glow  over  her  silvery 
hair  of  age,  all  like. the  joy  of  the  giver  upon 
beholding  the  joy  over  the  gift. 
142 


THE   WILLOW-WARE 


THE   WILLOW-WARE 


ADELINE  WEAVER  sat  under  the  green 
r\  trellis  of  the  south  door  of  the  old  Weaver 
mansion,  and  sewed  her  seam  of  fine  linen. 
She  did  not  like  to  sew,  but  her  aunts,  the 
Misses  Jane  and  Eliza  Weaver,  with  whom  she 
lived,  would  have  turned  faint  with  horror  had 
she  suggested  the  possibility  of  ready-made 
garments.  All  the  ladies  of  the  Weaver  family 
had  always  made  their  own  underwear,  and  the 
custom  had  become,  as  a  species  of  royal  eti 
quette,  not  to  be  lightly  ignored.  Adeline  sewed 
with  a  sort  of  surface  patience.  The  green 
trellis  over  her  head  was  all  interlaced  with  deli 
cate  green  grape-vines.  The  grapes  had  just 
begun  to  form.  Tiny  clusters  of  green  glob 
ules  like  jewels  dotted  the  tracery  over  her 
head.  Adeline's  aunts  were  sewing  in  the  south 
room.  Adeline  could  hear  the  soft  murmur  of 
their  voices,  but  could  seldom  distinguish  a 
word.  The  women  of  the  Weaver  family  had 
MS 


THE   FAIR   LAVINIA   AND    OTHERS 

naturally  low  and  gentle  voices  with  no  harsh 
notes.  There  was  a  tradition  that  no  women 
of  the  family  ever  screamed.  If  protest  they 
had  against  pain  or  fear  or  injustice  they  kept 
it  locked  in  their  own  breasts.  This  young 
Adeline  was  a  true  Weaver.  She  sat  there  in 
her  cool,  lilac  muslin  gown,  cut  V-shaped  at  the 
long,  slender  throat,  and  fastened  with  an 
amethyst  brooch,  with  her  soft  gold  hair  part 
ed  over  her  serene  forehead,  and  she  was  the 
very  image  of  peaceful  young  womanhood  at 
a  peaceful  task,  when  inwardly  her  whole  spirit 
surged  in  a  fierce  revolt.  Across  the  wide 
street,  overarched  with  elms,  she  could  see  a 
row  of  neat  little  white  cottages,  each  standing 
in  its  green  yard.  Adeline  looked  at  them, and 
took  another  delicate  stitch.  She  felt  horribly 
irritated  by  the  row  of  little  white  cottages  in 
their  green  yards.  She  was  eighteen  years  old, 
and  she  had  never  spent  a  night  away  from 
home,  and  her  room  faced  those  cottages,  and 
she  had  never  waked  in  the  morning  to  another 
prospect.  She  had  been  educated  by  her 
aunts  and  a  governess  who  was  a  distant  rela 
tive  of  the  family.  The  governess  was  a  maid 
en  lady,  and  she  had  taught  the  girl  in  a  stereo 
typed  fashion,  as  she  and  the  Misses  Weaver  had 
been  taught. 

Now  that  her  education  was  finished,  the  one 
146 


THE   WILLOW-WARE 

thing  which  really  asserted  itself  within  her, 
and  which  was  beyond  all  education,  was  her 
own  youth,  and  her  longing  for  her  joy  of  life, 
The  straight-laced  fashion  in  which  she  had  been 
trained  made  this  almost' abnormal.  Adeline 
was  full  of  dreams,  but  so  far  they  had  been 
dreams  into  which  she  could  admit  no  man  of 
her  acquaintance  without  sacrilege.  Still  she 
dreamed  with  an  innocent  and  almost  holy 
ardor.  This  young  thing  fastened,  as  it  were, 
by  thongs  of  duty  to  age  and  conservatism, 
pulled  hard  at  her  leash.  If  she  had  ever 
known  liberty,  if  she  had  ever  had  a  change  of 
scene,  and  lovers,  they  would  not  have  seemed 
so  precious  to  her.  Adeline's  dreams  were  not 
wholly  of  lovers,  she  dreamed  also  of  mates  of 
her  own  sex.  She  had  never  had  any.  Her 
aunts  were  full  of  a  gentle  but  none  the  less 
obstinate  pride  of  birth  and  education  and.  * 
modest  affluence,  and  they  considered  that|r 
there  were  no  fit  mates  for  their  niece  in  the' 
village. 

Presently  Adeline  saw  two  young  girls  com 
ing  down  the  street.  They  had  their  arms 
around  each  other's  waists,  and,  although  they 
were  as  old  as  she,  were  advancing  with  a  hop 
and  skip  like  children.  Their  shrill,  sweet 
voices  sounded  like  bird-songs.  Adeline  watch 
ed  them  enviously.  'One  was  the  daughter  of 


THE    FAIR    LAVINIA  AND   OTHERS 

the  village  cobbler,  the  other  of  a  man  who  got 
a  frugal  living  from  tending  gardens,  and  doing 
odd  jobs.  Both  glanced  at  her,  then  looked 
away  and  hushed  their  merry  chatter  and 
laughter.  They  stood  in  awe  of  her.  Adeline 
felt  hurt  because  of  it.  She  did  not  feel  in  the 
least  above  them.  Her  very  heart  leaped  after 
the  other  young  things  of  her  kind.  She  sigh 
ed,  and  took  another  stitch.  The  air  had  been 
very  still.  A  breeze  blew  out  of  the  west  cross 
ing  two  windows  of  the  sitting-room.  On  the 
wings  of  this  west  wind  came  her  Aunt  Eliza 
Weaver's  voice:  "Of  course,  to-morrow  after 
noon  as  usual,"  she  said.  Adeline  sighed  wear 
ily.  She  knew  so  well  what  that  meant:  an 
other  recurrence  of  one  of  the  monotonies  of 
her  life.  The  minister,  Dr.  Timothy  Akers, 
was  coming  to  tea.  Regularly  once  a  week,  on 
Thursday,  he  came  to  tea.  He  was  an  old  man, 
older  than  either  of  her  aunts,  but  still  hale. 
He  liked  the  good  things  of  life  within  clerical 
limits.  Invitations  to  tea  were  his  especial  de 
lights;  especially  he  enjoyed  taking  tea  at  the 
Weaver  mansion.  He  himself  came  of  good 
old  stock.  He  felt  himself  in  the  presence  of 
his  equals,  and,  moreover,  he  enjoyed  a  mild 
sense  of  gallantry  in  his  relations  with  the 
Weaver  ladies.  He  had  never  married.  He 
had  never  had  a  love  affair,  but  feminine  atten- 

148 


THE   WILLOW-WARE 

tion  was  dear  to  him.  He  always  came  care 
fully  brushed,  with  the  faintest  suggestion  of 
masculine  coquetry  in  his  greeting,  and  the 
Weaver  sisters  never  failed  to  meet  him  in  kind 
arrayed  in  their  old  laces,  and  rich  silks,  and 
with  their  evanescent  female  coquetry  of  man 
ner.  Dr.  Akers  had  come  thus  to  tea  ever 
since  Adeline  could  remember.  There  was  a 
time  when  village  gossip  had  associated  his 
name  with  that  of  Miss  Eliza  Weaver,  the  young 
er  of  the  two  sisters.  Although  she  had  long 
been  an  old  maid  and  he  an  old  bachelor,  even 
when  Adeline  was  a  child  still  there  were  peo 
ple  who  did  not  think  a  match  between  the 
clergyman  and  Miss  Eliza  altogether  a  ridicu 
lous  assumption.  In  those  days  Miss  Eliza 
used  possibly  to  dwell  a  little  more  upon  her 
faded  yet  still  sweet  reflection  in  her  looking- 
glass,  and  arrange  with  a  trifle  more  care  the 
clusters  of  soft  curls  on  either  side  of  her  deli 
cate  face.  She  used  to  play  the  piano  for  him 
in  her  stilted  lady-style,  touching  the  yellow 
ivory  keys  daintily  with  the  tips  of  her  taper 
fingers.  Now  Adeline  was  called  upon  to  do 
that.  Miss  Eliza  had  suffered  one  winter  from 
rheumatism  in  her  hands,  and  she  was  well 
aware  that  they  were  veinous,  and  wrinkled. 
She  let  soft  lace  fall  over  them,  and  did  not  ' 
play  the  piano  any  more.  Adeline  always 
149 


THE   FAIR   LAVINIA   AND    OTHERS 

*  played  one  particular  piece  for  Dr.  Akers  which 
she  disliked  extremely.  It  was  called  "Dew- 
fall/'  There  was  a  weakly,  sentimental  air 
with  weary  variations.  Adeline  suspected  that 
Dr.  Akers  and  her  Aunt  Eliza  might  have  some 
romantic  associations  with  the  piece.  Once, 
whirling  around  suddenly  upon  the  piano  stool, 
when  she  had  finished,  she  had  caught  the 
coquettish  simper  upon  her  Aunt  Eliza's  face, 
and  the  clergyman's  gentle,  languishing  glance 
at  her.  Adeline's  first  sensation  had  been  one 
of  wondering  amusement,  then  she  had  felt  the 
pathos  of  it.  "Poor  Aunt  Liza,"  she  said  to 
herself  that  night,  when  she  was  alone  in  her 
room  brushing  out  her  shining  lengths  of  hair. 
Then  she  thought  how  easily  her  Aunt  Eliza's 
fate  might  be  her  own,  and  she  pitied  herself, 
with  a  sort  of  fierce  anger  at  herself  for  the 
pity.  "Maybe  I  shall  not  have  even  a  Dr. 
Akers,  not  even  the  ghost  of  a  love  affair,  to 
dwell  upon  when  I  am  Aunt  Eliza's  age,"  she 
reflected. 

This  afternoon,  when  she  heard  her  aunts 
talking  about  the  clergyman's  coming  to  tea, 
a  sensation  of  almost  unbearable  boredom  which  ( 
fairly  amounted  to  pain  came  over  her.  She 
asked  herself  wearily  how  she  could  endure  that 
endless  repetition  of  events  which  would  ensue 
the  next  evening.  She  knew  just  how  the  tea- 
150 


THE   WILLOW-WARE 

table  would  look  decked  with  its  fine  damask, 
its  old  cut  glass,  and  thin  silver,  and  the  set  of 
blue  and  white  willow- ware,  which  her  great 
grandfather  Weaver  had  brought  from  over 
seas.  She  knew  just  what  they  would  have 
for  tea.  The  menu  never  varied.  There  would 
be  hot  biscuits  made  with  cream,  cold  ham  cut 
in  thick,  pink  slices,  an  omelet  made  with  sweet 
herbs,  a  mould  of  quivering  red  jelly,  pound 
cake,  fruit  cake,  and  tea,  and  dainty  little  pats 
of  fresh  butter.  Once  Adeline  in  sheer  despera- 
tion  had  endeavored  to  make  a  change  in  the 
unvarying  list  of  eatables.  She  had  suggested 
cold  tongue  instead  of  ham,  and  a  salad.  But 
her  aunts  had  regarded  her  with  a  gentle  sur 
prise  and.. delicate  chins  set  with  obstinacy. 
"  We  have  always  had  cold  ham,  and  Dr.  Akers 
prefers  it,"  her  Aunt  Eliza  had  replied.  Again 
Adeline  had  detected  the  faint  simper  of  senti- 
rnentalism  upon  her  aunt's  face.  Again  she 
felt  at  once  amused  and  compassionate.  "  I 
suppose  they  had  cold  ham  when  they  had  a 
half-way  love  scene  after  Aunt  Eliza  played 
'DewfalL,'"  Adeline  thought.  This  afternoon, 
as  she  reviewed  the  unvarying  programme  for 
the  next  evening,  that  lackadaisical  piece  call 
ed  "Dewfall"  had  jits  own  place  in  her  painful 
sense  of  monotony.  She  thought  with  sudden 
desperation  that  she  might  hide  the  music,  then 
151 


THE    FAIR    LAVINIA   AND    OTHERS 

she  reflected  that  nobody  would  believe  that 
she  could  not  play  it  by  rote,  as  indeed  she 
could.  She  took  another  stitch,  and  glanced 
over  her  fine  seam  at  the  opposite  cottages. 
Again  a  soft  puff  of  west  wind  roughed  her 
yellow  hair,  and  she  caught  plainly  the  sense 
of  the  conversation  in  the  sitting-room.  "  I 
must  not  forget  to  remind  Hannah  to  mix  up 
the  biscuits  to  rise  to-night,"  her  Aunt  Jane 
was  saying.  Adeline's  lips  curled  scornfully, 
"As  if  Hannah  could  forget,"  she  fairly  whis 
pered. 

She  wished  sometimes  that  the  old  servant- 
woman  would  forget  something.  It  seemed  to 
the  girl  often  as  if  she  were  nothing  but  an  in 
carnate  memory  of  y^&rs  of  routine.  Hannah 
was  old,  older  than  Miss  Jane  Weaver.  She 
was  large,  and  padded  heavily  about  like  a 
cushion-footed  animal.  Her  immense  face  look 
ed  vacant  of  everything  except  old  memories. 
Hannah,  as  it  seemed  to  Adeline,  would  have 
fallen  prostrate,  d  shuddering  heap  of  flesh,  be 
fore  an  Innovation.  Once  Adeline  had  pre 
vailed  upon  her  to  try  a  new  recipe  for  cake. 
The  cake  had  been  a  failure,  and  Hannah  had 
been  nearly  ill.  "My  dear,"  her  Aunt  Jane 
had  said  to  Adeline,  "Hannah  is  used  to  doing 
things  one  way.  She  does  them  very  well. 
Your  Aunt  Eliza  and  I  think  it  best  that  you 


THE    WILLOW-WARE 

should  not  disturb  her.  Hannah  is  not  as 
young  as  she  has  been."  Adeline  had  ac 
quiesced  sweetly,  but  she  had  eaten  the  cake 
failure,  soggy  as  it  was,  with  a  sort  of  fierce 
animal  relish.  At  least  it  was  something  dif 
ferent.  Adeline  was  often  conscious  of  a  van 
dal  wish  that  Hannah's  unfailing  recipes  would 
fail.  She  almost  felt  at  times,  so  weary  she 
was,  that  it  would  be  good  to  eat  grass  like 
Nebuchadnezzar.  It  was  odd  that  the  girl's 
health  should  not  have  deserted  her,  such  was 
her  weariness  of  spirit,  but  she  came  of  a  deli 
cately  healthy  stock.  She  was  fine  in  the  grain, 
but  built  to  endure  even  monotony.  Then  too, 
she  was  much  in  the  open,  and  that  served  to 
preserve  her  health.  Adeline  often  felt  that 
had  it  not  been  for  the  variableness  of  weather, 
which  was  the  only  variableness  in  her  life,  she 
should  have  gone  mad.  Lately  even  nature  had 
grown  monotonous.  There  had  been  day  after 
day  of  sweet  serene  weather.  Light  winds  had 
risen  now  and  then  and  shifted,  then  died  away 
into  a  soft  calm.  It  was  neither  cool  nor  hot. 
The  summer  advanced  surely,  but  so  slowly 
that  one  got  little  sense  of  change  from  that. 
Adeline  looked  up  at  the  gold-green  grape 
vine  over  her  head.  "  It  looked  just  as  it  does 
now  a  week  ago,"  she  thought.  Then  again  the 
anticipation  of  the  next  evening:  the  bland 
153 


THE   FAIR   LAVINIA   AND   OTHERS 

clergyman,  the  tea,  and  herself  playing  "  Dew- 
fall"  came  over  her,  and  fairly  stung  her  into 
revolt.  A  bright  red  flamed  out  on  her  soft 
cheeks.  She  put  up  one  slim  hand,  and  gave 
the  smooth  folds  of  her  hair  an  impatient  push 
4  back,  revealing  a  bold,  almost  boyish  fulness 
of  temples.  She  heard  the  faint  "clink  of  silver 
from  the  kitchen,  where  old  Hannah  was  pre 
paring  tea,  the  invariable  tea  of  that  night  of 
the  week,  cream  toast,  dried  beef,  and  sponge 
cake.  How  she  hated  that,  too!  She  made  a 
straight  line  of  her  sweet  lips  which  curved  like^ 
a  rose.  She  let  her  work  fall  into  her  lap/  and' 
threw  herself  back  in  her  chair.  She  looked 
rebelliously  at  thevwork.  She  hemstitched  all 
jf\  her  fine  linen  handkerchiefs  by  hand.  Her 
aunts  would  have  shuddered  at  the  thought  of 
a  machine-bordered  handkerchief  for  a  Weaver. 
She  had  been  listlessly*  toiling  at  the  square  of 
fine  linen  for  days.  She  shrugged  her  sloping 
shoulders  contemptuously.  '  '  What  is  the  use  ?" 
she  thought.  "I  would  just  as  soon  have  ma-' 
chine-  worked  handkerchiefs  for  the  rest  of  my 
days.  I  would  much  rather  than  sit  and  sew 
as  I  do."  She  thought  again,  a  passion  of 
longing,  of  the  skipping  young  girls  who  had 
recently  passed.  How  much  better  to  run 
along  the  street  with  them,  and  laugh  and  prate 
with  youth  of  the  joys  of  youth,  even  the  follies 


A 
~ 


THE  WILLOW-WARE 

of  youth,  than  to  have  all  her  garments  hand-j 
made.  The  tragedy  of  a  tight  leash  upon! 
growth  forced  itself  upon  her  consciousness. 
The  holiest  force  in  the  world,  that  of  the  growth 
of  youth,  was  being  restrained.  Angry  tears 
came  into  her  eyes.  "It  is  cruel,"  she  said  to 
herself  —  '"cruel."  Again  she  heard  the  clink 
of  silver.  She  smelled  the  bread  toasting,  she 
smelled  the  choice  green  tea  which  her  aunts 
loved.  She  looked  at  the  little  gold  watch 
which  had  been  her  mother's,  which  was  sus 
pended  around  her  neck  by  a  slender  gold 
chain.  It  was  almost  tea  time.  A  sudden; 
resolve  seized  upon  her.  The  spirit  of  rebel 
lion  grew.  She  made  up  her  mind  to  do  an  un 
heard-of  thing:  something  which  she  had  never 
done.  Punctuality  was  held  as  one  of  the  car 
dinal  virtues  by  her  aunts.  "None  of  the 
Weavers  have  ever  been  unpunctual,"  Miss! 
Jane  was  wont  to  say.  Miss  Eliza  often  re 
marked  that  she  herself  had  always  considered 
it  unworthy  of  a  gentlewoman  to  be  unpunct 
ual.  Adeline  resolved  to  fly  in  the  face  of 
this  edict  of  the  Weavers.  She  said  to  herself—' 
that  she  would  be  late  for  tea.  She  folded  her 
work,  and  quilted  in  the  needle.  She  placed  j 

^ 


it  neatly  in  her  little  work-basket.     Revolt 
not  yet  fully  asserted  itself  within  her.     She 
had  been  taught  that  no  gentlewoman  was  dis-  v 


THE   FAIR    LAVINIA   AND   OTHERS 

/  orderly.     Order  often  wearied  her,  she  had  so 
{    much  of  it,   but  it  had  become  involuntary. 
\  She  rose,  and  stole  noiselessly  under  the  green 
|   canopy  of  the  porch  into  the  side  door;   she 
;  tiptoed  noiselessly  down  the  path;  she  skirted 
#:\  the  house  out  of  range  of  the  sitting-room  win 
dows.     Then  she  gathered  up  her  muslin  skirts 
and  ran  like  a  cat.     She  even  kicked  her  heels 
a  little,  flirting  out  the  back  breadths  of  her 
skirts.     If  her  aunts  had  only  seen  those  un 
seemly  gambols  of  the  slim,   pointed  Weaver 
feet! 

She  ran  in  the  direction  which  the  two  young 
girls  had  taken:  towards  the  village  post-office, 
which  was  in  the  big  country  store.  Just  as 
she  reached  it  the  girls  came  out.  One  was 
nibbling  a  barley  sugar -stick;  the  other,  one 
of  red  and  white  peppermint — both  with  the 
frank  enjoyment  of  children.  The  cobbler's 
daughter  carried  a  little  paper  bag  and  a  letter. 
Adeline  entered  the  store,  made  a  feint  of 
looking  in  the  post-office,  and  was  out,  at  the 
heels  of  the  other  girls.  Presently  she  caught 
up  with  them.  They  looked  at  her  and  nodded 
shyly.  The  cobbler's  daughter,  who  was  the 
less  self-conscious  of  the  two,  said,  "  Good-after 
noon,"  in  a  thin,  sweet  little  voice.  Adeline 
responded.  Then  she  walked  along  with  the 
girls.  She  was  the  shyest  of  all.  When  su- 
156 


THE   WILLOW-WARE 

periority  is  shy,  it  is  with  intensity.  Now  and 
then  she  glanced  at  her  companions.  Her 
cheeks  were  burning.  She  said  something  about 
the  weather  in  a  faltering  voice,  and  nobody 
could  have  understood  the  response  which  the 
other  girls  made.  Finally  the  cobbler's  daugh 
ter  recovered  herself.  She  extended  the  sticky 
little  paper  bag,  which  she  carried,  towards 
Adeline.  "Have  some  candy?"  she  said,  af 
fably.  The  impulse  of  generosity  gave  her 
self-poise.  She  was  an  honest,  friendly  little 
soul.  Adeline  took  a  stick  of  candy  and  thank 
ed  her,  and  a  specimen  of  familiarity  was  es 
tablished.  The  girls  had  met  on  a  common 
ground  of  young  girlhood:  the  love  of  sweets. 
They  looked  indescribably  young  as  they  went 
on  sucking  the  sweeties.  Adeline  lost  com 
pletely  her  air  of  womanly  serenity,  which  she 
always  wore  over  her  youthful  turbulence. 
She  looked  the  youngest,  the  freest  of  the  three. 
She  laughed,  now  and  then  she  gave  a  little 
side  wise  spring  like  a  kitten  out  of  pure  animal^ 

r  °>  +, — -         ^-E^-*— -\--\_- — v— ^— •     I 

spirits.  Occasionally  the  other  girls  glanced 
at  each  other  with  wonder.  They  could  not 
understand  how  it  had  happened  that  Miss 
Adeline  Weaver  had  so  descended  from  her 
height.  However,  at  last,  such  was  her  spon 
taneous  sweetness,  her  gay  innocence,  that  they 
met  her  fully.  They  danced  along,  all  linking 


THE    FAIR    LAVINIA  AND  OTHERS 

arms.  Presently  they  saw  a  young  man  walk 
ing  towards  them,  and  immediately  feminine 
instinct  asserted  themselves.  They  separated. 
They  walked  demurely.  When  they  passed  the 
young  man  there  was  just  the  merest  glimpse 
of  dewy  eyes  between  the  modest  droop  of 
lids.  He  was  a  stranger  to  all  of  them.  He 
was  dressed  after  a  different  fashion  from  the 
youths  of  the  village.  He  was  very  handsome, 
tall  and  fair-haired,  with  an  aristocratic  cast 
of  features,  yet  withal  a  mischievous  glance  of 
appraisal  at  the  girls.  He  was  entirely  out  of 
hearing  before  the  cobbler's  daughter  spoke. 

"He  must  be  Dr.  Aker's  nephew,"  said  she. 

"Yes,"  assented  the  other  girl.  "  I  heard  he 
was  coming.  Dr.  Aker's  housekeeper  told 
mother  that  he  was  coming  for  a  visit.  He 
lives  in  Boston,  and  his  name  is  Farwell.  He 
is  Dr.  Aker's  sister's  son." 

"Isn't  he  handsome?" 

"  He  is  beautiful,"  said  the  gardener's  daugh 
ter. 

Adeline  said  nothing,  but  wonder  and  rap 
ture  were  in  her  face.  He  was  no  stranger  to 
her.  He  was  the  man  of  her  dreams.  Color 
suffused  her  face.  She  realized  a  sense  of 
shame  that  she  should  have  met  him  thus. 
They  should  have  met  in  some  green  solitude 
which  had  always  been  the  background  of  her 
158 


THE   WILLOW-WARE 

dreams.  Living  constantly  with  her  elders 
had  given  the  girl  an  old-fashioned  habit  of 
thought.  She  had  almost  Elizabethap  settings 
for  all  her  romantic  imaginings.  It  fairly 
shocked  her  that  she  should  have  met  him  on 
the  village  street  with  two  young  girls,  and  all 
three  sucking  sticks  of  candy  like  children. 
She  drew  hers  from  her  mouth,  and  threw  it  on 
the  ground.  " Ain't  it  good?"  asked  the  cob 
bler's  daughter.  Adeline  started  confusedly. 
Her  courtesy  was  instinctive,  and  she  had  out 
raged  it. 

1  'Oh,  very  good  indeed!"  she  cried,  "very 
good!" 

"Then  why  did  you  throw  it  away?" 

"  I  never  eat  much  candy.  I  beg  your  par 
don,"  said  Adeline. 

The  other  girls  were  perfectly  good-natured 
and  merry.  They  laughed,  but  Adeline  con 
tinued  to  feel  abashed.  The  old  sense  of  aloof 
ness  reasserted  itself. 

She  went  along  soberly  with  them  a  little 
farther,  then  the  cobbler's  daughter  reached 
her  own  home,  and  said  good-night,  and  turned 
her  steps  into  the  path  between  two  rows  of 
clove  pinks,  which  led  through  the  green  front 
yard  to  the  -door.  The  gardener's  daughter 
lived  a  little  farther  on.  Adeline  looked  at  her 
watch  innocently  and  conscious  of  the  awe 


THE   FAIR   LAVINIA   AND    OTHERS 

which  the  action  inspired  in  her  companion. 
"I  must  go,  too,"  said  Adeline;  "good-night." 

The  gardener's  daughter  stood  looking  after 
her.  The  cobbler's  daughter  danced  back  be 
tween  the  rows  of  clove-pinks  for  a  last  word. 
"She  didn't  act  a  mite  stuck  up,  and  then  she 
did,"  she  said. 

"That's  so,"  assented  the  other  girl. 

Adeline  meantime  hastened  home.  She  was 
already  late  for  tea,  but  the  fact,  instead  of 
exhilarating  her,  as  she  had  expected,  alarmed 
her.  When  she  reached  home  both  her  aunts 
were  on  the  porch  swathed,  one  in  a  fleecy  white 
shawl,  the  other  in  an  ancient  India- web.  They 
regarded  Adeline  with  anxiety  as  she  came 
hurrying  towards  them. 

"  My  dear,"  said  her  Aunt  Jane. 

"My  dear,"  said  her  Aunt  Eliza. 

That  was  all  that  either  said,  but  there  was 
a  world  of  meaning  in  the  two  words. 

"I  am  sorry,"  stammered  Adeline.  "It  was 
so  pleasant,  and  I  had  had  no  exercise  to  day, 
and  I — went  to  the  post-office — 

She  paused.  Both  her  aunts  appeared  to 
be  waiting.  Untruth  or  even  the  silence  of 
deceit  was  not  in  the  girl. 

"I  met  Flora  Shaw  and  Lizzie  Ellis,"  said 
Adeline,  "and  I  walked  a  little  way  down  the 
street  with  them." 

160 


THE    WILLOW-WARE 

Then  Adeline  waited.  She  knew  there  was 
no  storm  for  which  to  wait,  only  a  calm,  but  it 
was  a  calm  which  she  had  dreaded  ever  since 
she  could  remember. 

At  last  her  Aunt  Jane  spoke.  "  Flora  Shaw 
and  Lizzie  Ellis." 

Then  her  Aunt  Eliza  spoke.  "Flora  Shaw 
and  Lizzie  Ellis." 

"Yes,  Aunts,"  responded  Adeline. 

There  was  another  pause  before  another  calm. 
Then  Miss  Jane  spoke  again.  "  Come  in,  dear," 
said  she,  "  tea  has  been  waiting  for  over  half  an 
hour." 

Adeline  followed  her  two  aunts,  majestic  in 
their  unruffled  patience  of  exterior,  trailing  their 
rich  black  skirts,  holding  their  heads  erect  above 
their  soft  laces,  into  the  house. 

She  took  her  place  at  the  table.  She  was 
outwardly  as  serene  as  her  aunts.  Inwardly 
the  waves  of  youthful  excitement  and  unrest 
again  surged.  She  felt  a  hysterical  delight  that 
she  was  late,  that  she  had  successfully  invaded 
the  monotony  of  things,  and  yet  she  was  con 
scious  of  remorse  and  grief  that  she  had  dis 
turbed  her  aunts.  She  loved  her  aunts.  Af 
fection  existed  in  the  girl's  soul  as  an  essential 
perfume.  Without  it  her  own  self  was  incon 
ceivable.  And  yet  she  had  that  delight  in 
rebellion  against  that  which  she  loved.  She 

161 


THE   FAIR   LAVINIA   AND    OTHERS 

did  not  want  any  supper,  yet  she  cleared  her 
plate  daintily  of  all  which  was  placed  thereon. 
It  was  one  of  the  laws  of  the  house  that  nothing 
should  be  left  on  a  plate.  Adeline  had  been 
taught  that  it  was  not  lady-like.  All  the  time 
Adeline  was  eating,  taking  small  mouthfuls, 
scarcely  moving  her  mouth,  as  she  had  been 
taught,  she  was  thinking  of  the  young  man 
whom  she  had  met:  Dr.  Aker's  nephew.  She 
wondered  if  he  might  not  be  coming  to  tea 
with  his  uncle  the  next  afternoon.  She  felt 
herself  turn  hot  and  cold  at  the  supposition. 
She  kept  waiting  for  one  of  her  aunts  to  say 
something  with  regard  to  it.  When  she  woke 
the  next  morning  that  was  her  first  thought. 
Every  time  she  looked  at  her  Aunt  Eliza  or  her 
Aunt  Jane  or  even  Hannah,  there  was  an  in 
quiring  expression  on  her  face.  However,  not 
a  word  was  said  with  regard  to  Dr.  Aker's 
nephew  during  the  day,  although  the  prepara 
tions  for  the  company  tea  went  on  as  they  had 
always  gone  on,  with  the  same  wearying  mono 
tony.  It  was  always  Adeline's  task  on  these 
occasions  to  polish  the  old  silver,  of  which  the 
Weavers  had  a  large  stock.  Of  late  years  she 
had  also  set  the  tea-table.  She  took  especial 
pains  with  it  that  day.  She  could  not  help 
having  a  faint  hope  that  Dr.  Aker's  nephew 
might  come,  although  not  a  word  had  been 
162 


THE   WILLOW-WARE 

said.  In  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  she  had 
the  table  decked  with  the  fine  old  damask  and 
silver,  and  a  great  china  vase  of  roses  adorned 
the  centre,  when  she  overhead  a  conversation 
between  her  aunts  in  the  sitting-room: 

"I  met  Mrs.  Samuel  Whitridge  this  morning 
on  the  street,"  said  Miss  Eliza  Weaver,  "and 
she  told  me  that  Dr.  Aker's  nephew  from  Bos 
ton,  Elias  Farwell,  had  been  spending  two  days 
with  him." 

"  Then  we  ought  to  send  Hannah  at  once  and 
invite  him  to  come  to  tea  with  Dr.  Akers,"  re 
sponded  Jane,  and  Adeline's  heart  leaped. 

It  sank  again  at  Eliza  Weaver's  reply:  "Mrs. 
Whitridge  said  he  was  going  away  on  the  noon 
train,"  said  she. 

"It  would  have  been  strange  if  Dr.  Akers 
had  not  told  us  if  his  nephew  were  to  be  here," 
said  Jane,  "and  given  us  a  chance  to  invite 
him.  He  must  be  Dr.  Akers's  sister  Lily's 
son." 

"Yes,  she  married  a  Farwell,"  assented  Eliza.] 

Adeline  heard  no  more.     She  stood  still  with! 
a  drumming  in  her  ears.     Then  it  was  all  over:\ 
the  little  chance  of  a  break  in  the  terrible,  tragic^ 
monotony  of  things.     He  was  not  coming.     It  • 
was  all  to  be  the  way  it  had  always  been.     The 
girl's  soft  cheeks  flushed,  a  strange  glitter  came 
into  her  sweet  blue  eyes,  an  inconsequent  rage  \ 
163 


THE    FAIR    LAVINIA  AND   OTHERS 

against  existing  conditions  of  things  seized  her. 
She  had  not  yet  put  the  precious  old  willow- 
ware  on  the  table.  She  glanced  around  her. 
Her  aunts,  already  dressed,  were  in  the  sitting- 
room.  Old  Hannah  had  gone  to  the  store  on 
an  errand.  Adeline  softly  closed  the  dining- 
room  door.  Then  she  did  an  awful  thing. 
She  carried  the  willow  -  ware  —  the  whole  set, 
loading  her  slender  arms  with  as  many  pieces 
at  a  time  as  she  could  carry — out  into  the  garden 
to  the  summer-house.  In  the  floor  of  the  sum 
mer-house  were  two  loose  boards.  She  hid  the 
willow  -  ware  under  the  floor,  replacing  the 
boards,  then  she  flew  back  to  the  house. 

When  she  entered  the  dining-room ;  her  Aunt 
Eliza  was  calling  to  her  from  the  sitting-room: 

"Is  the  table  set,  dear?"  asked  Aunt  Eliza. 

Adeline  opened  the  door  a  little  way,  and 
stood,  her  pallid,  shocked  young  face  peering 
through.  "All  except  the  dishes,"  replied  Ade 
line,  faintly.  "  I  think  I  must  go  up  to  my 
room  and  lie  down  a  little  while,  Aunt  Eliza." 

"Why,  what  is  the  matter,  aren't  you  well?" 
inquired  her  aunt's  soft,  anxious  voice. 

"My  head  aches  a  little." 

Then  Miss  Jane  Weaver  spoke.     "Go  up  to 
your  room  at  once,  then,"  said  she,  "and  bathe 
your  head  with  cologne,  and  lie  down  until  it 
is  time  to  dress  for  tea." 
164 


THE    WILLOW-WARE 

' '  Yes,  Aunt  Jane, ' '  replied  Adeline.  She  heard 
dimly  her  Aunt  Eliza  saying  something  about 
the  dear  child  having  been  too  long  out  in  the 
sun  that  morning  as  she  fled  up  the  spiral  stairs. 
When  she  reached  her  own  room,  and  had  closed 
the  door,  she  stood  still  in  the  midst  of  it.  She 
had  never  known  before  the  awful  delight  of 
wickedness.  Now  she  realized  that  she  knew 
it.  Hiding  away  that  willow- ware,  breaking 
mj-ipon  the  sacred  conservatism  of  the  daily  J 
Weaver  life,  was  to 'Tier  Consciousness  a  deed 
of  the  nature  of  sacrilege,  let  alone  the  deceit 
and  the  secresy  involved.  She  was  frightened 
as  she  had  never  been  frightened,  she  was 
wretched  as  she  had  never  been  wretched,  and 
yet  she  was  conscious  of  a  mad  exhilaration^, 
which  was  entrancing.  She  took  off  her  gown, 
put  on  a  loose  white  wrapper,  and  lay  down 
on  a  couch  under  her  window.  Her  room  was 
over  the  dining-room.  She  thought  she  might 
overhear  something  of  the  consternation  which 
would  arise  when  Hannah  returned  and  the 
loss  of  the  willow -ware  was  discovered.  She 
thought,  with  a  terrified  pang,  what  she  could 
do  if  they  should  come  and  question  her,  but 
she  had  not  much  fear  of  that.  What  she  had 
done  would  be  so  inconceivable  to  her  aunts 
that  questioning  would  simply  not  occur  to 
them. 

165 


THE   FAIR    LAVINIA   AND   OTHERS 

Presently,  as  she  lay  there,  she  heard  Hannah's 
heavy  shuffle  on  the  gravel- walk.  Then  she 
waited  a  long  time.  Then  she  heard  a  shrill 
chorus:  her  aunts'  voices  for  once  raised  above 
their  gentle  pitch,  and  Hannah's,  loudly  vocif 
erous,  almost  hysterical.  They  had  discov 
ered  the  loss  of  the  willow-ware.  Adeline  felt 
as  if  she  might  faint.  A  chill  crept  over  her  in 
the  warm  afternoon.  Would  they  come  at 
once  to  her  and  inquire  when  she  had  last  seen 
the  willow-ware — if  she  knew  aught  concerning 
its  disappearance?  Guilty  of  deceit  although 
she  was,  a  downright  falsehood  was  incon 
ceivable  to  Adeline.  She  knew  that  if  they 
asked,  she  must  answer  truly.  She  lay  tense 
with  fear,  but  gradually  the  tumult  died  away 
and  nobody  came.  Then  she  heard  the  far 
away  clink  of  china.  "Hannah  is  setting  the 
table  with  the  china  with  lavender  sprigs,"  she 
thought.  The  china  with  lavender-sprig  pat 
tern  was  regarded  as  the  second  best  in  the 
^  Weaver  house.  Adeline  felt  relieved.  She  re- 
'flected  how  the  willow- ware  had  been  kept  by 
itself  in  one  of  the  china  closets,  the  closet  with 
out  a  glass  door.  In  the  Weaver  dining-room 
were  three  china  closets.  The  family  was  /ich 
^n  china.  Two  of  the  closets  had  wood  doors, 
6ne  had  glass  in  leaded  pane.  In  that  was  kept 
odd  pieces  and  tfie  cut  glass,  for  which  there 

166 


THE   WILLOW-WARE 

was  no  room  on  the  old  Chippendale  sideboard. 
Adeline  reasoned  that  no  one  would  have 
noticed  that  the  willow- ware  had  disappeared 
unless  she  had  purposely  gone  to  the  closet  for 
it.  It  was  a  small  closet,  and  had  contained^ 
nothing  else.  When  she  had  robbed  it  she 
had  left  the  shelves  entirely  bare. 

It  had  been  two  o'clock  when  Adeline  lay 
down.  She  could  not  sleep,  but  she  remained 
on  the  couch  in  that  odd  state  of  terror  and 
guilty  exhilaration  until  she  heard  the  ^tall 
clock  in  the  hall  below  strike  four.  Dr.  Akers 
always  arrived  punctually  at  half -past  four. 
She  realized  that  she  must  rise  and  dress.  She 
arranged  her  hair  carefully  before  her  little 
muslin-draped  mirror.  She  washed  her  flushed 
face.  She  looked  guilty  to  herself.  She  won 
dered  if  anybody  would  notice.  She  lingered  , 
over  her  toilet .  She  got  out  an  old  sprigged  mus- . 
lin  gown.  "It  does  not  make  any  difference) 
what  I  wear,"  she  said,  rebelliously  to  herself. 
She  thought  how  different  it  would  have  been 
had  Dr.  Akers'  nephew  been  coming.  At  half- 
past  four  she  was  dressed.  She  had  put  on  a 
little  coral  necklace  to  brighten  the  old  muslin. 
She  was  about  to  go  down  when  she  heard 
voices.  She  peeped  around  her  dimity  curtains, 
and — Dr.  Akers  was  approaching  the  house,  and 
his  nephew  was  with  him. 

i»  167 


THE   FAIR   LAVINIA   AND    OTHERS 

Adeline  started  violently.  The  first  sensa 
tion  which  she  had  was  one  of  shame  and 
remorse.  She  felt  like  a  naughty  child  wlio 
had  fought,  to  her  own  undoing,  against  wind. 
Here  she  had  done  what  she  realized  to  be 
almost  something  which  savored  of  unreason, 
because  of  disappointment  and  unhappiness, 
and  here  there  was  no  disappointment,  no  un 
happiness  save  what  she  had  brought  upon  her 
self. 

Adeline  hesitated  a  second ;  then  she  hurried- 
^  ly  divested  herself  of  the  old  muslin  gown,  and 
got  a  pretty  new  one  from  her  closet.  The  gown 
was  cross-barred  muslin  with  a  pattern  of  green 
leaves.  Adeline  tied  a  green  ribbon  around 
her  waist.  Then  she  paused  irresolute  before 
her  dressing-table.  She  owned  a  valuable  orna 
ment  which  she  longed  to  wear,  but  she  was  not 
quite  sure  what  her  aunts  would  think.  She 
had  never  worn  it  much.  Her  aunts  had  al 
ways  told  her  that  it  was  not  suitable  for  or 
dinary  occasions,  and  poor  Adeline  had  ex 
perienced  very  few  occasions  which  did  not 
come  under  that  head.  Finally  she  could  not 
resist  the  temptation.  She  took  out  of  a 
drawer  a  case,  opened  it,  and  forthwith  a  green 
light  flashed  in  her  eyes  from  an  emerald  neck 
lace  which  had  come  down  to  her  from  her 
great-grandmother,  Adeline  Weaver.  She  fas- 
168 


THE   WILLOW-WARE 

tened  the  ornament  around  her  neck,  and,  in 
spite  of  her  secret  guilt,  smiled  radiantly  and 
innocently  at  her  reflected  image  in  the  glass. 
The  emeralds  around  her  white  throat  gave  the 
finishing  touch  to  the  picture.     She  was  com 
plete,  wonderful  to  see.     She  turned  her  head 
this   way  and  that;  she  smoothed  the  glossy 
golden  ripples  of  hair  which  concealed  her  ears 
except   the   rosy  tips.     She   perked   anew  the  4 
bow  of  her  green  belt-ribbon^    Then  she  went 
down-stairs.     When    she    entered    the    stately 
best  parlor  in  which  her  aunts  were  seated  with 
their  guests,  she  had  forgotten  the  willow- ware 
and  the   dreadful  thing   she  had  done.     She 
thought  only  of  the  radiant  picture  adorned., 
with  emeralds  which  she  had  seen  in  her  glass. 
She  thought  only  of  meeting — not  meeting,  had 
they  not  met  already  hundreds  of  times,  in  the 
sacred  intimacy  of  her  maiden  dreams  ?     Meet 
ing  was  not  the  word  to  use  with  regard  to  her^ 
coming  sight  of  Dr.  Akers's  nephew.     Incarna-  < 
tion  better  expressed  her  exalted  passion  "with 
regard  to  it  all.     The  gentlemen  arose  directly, 
when  Adeline    crossed    the    parlor    threshold.  V 
Dr.  Akers  saluted  her  with  ceremonious  polite 
ness,  and  begged  leave  to  present  his  nephew, 
Mr.  Elias    Farwell.     Adeline    courtesied.     She 
felt  the  young  man's  hand  enclosing  hers.     Her 
heart  beat  hard,  there  was  a  singing  in  her  ears, 
169 


THE   FAIR   LAVINIA   AND    OTHERS 

but  she  was  a  gentlewoman  born  and  bred. 
She  greeted  Mr.  Farwell  with  the  gentle  com 
posure  which  she  had  been  taught.  Then  she 
seated  herself  beside  a  window.  The  window 
was  open,  and  a  green  vine  outside  partly  veiled 
it.  The  sun  shone  through  the  vine-leaves  over 
the  girl  with  her  gold  hair.  Her  soft  face  glowed 
with  triumphant  tints  of  rose  and  pearl  in  spite 
of  the  green  light.  The  emeralds  at  her  throat 
gleamed.  She  crossed  her  slim  hands  in  her 
lap,  and  an  emerald  on  one  of  them  also  gleam 
ed.  Elias  Farwell  gazed  at  her  with  a  startled 
air.  He  thought  that  he  had  never  before  seen 
such  a  beautiful  girl,  and  he  had  seen  many 
girls.  He  had  passed  dreams  into  realities,  al 
though  he  was  worthy  of  the  stock  from  which 
he  came. 

Dr.  Timothy  Akers  had  reason  for  the  pride 
with  which  he  had  presented  his  nephew  to  the 
Weaver  ladies.  It  was  not  long  before  tea 
was  announced.  Young  Farwell  sat  beside 
Adeline.  They  talked  a  little  about  the  village, 
about  Boston,  how  he  was  enjoying  his  visit, 
the  weather.  The  surface  of  the  conversation 
was  prosaic  enough,  but  there  were  depths  be 
low  the  surface.  When  Elias  remarked  upon 
the  beauty  of  the  weather  he  looked  at  the  girl's 
beautiful  face,  he  looked  at  the  slim  white 
hand  with  its  gleaming  emerald,  and  his  tone 
170 


THE   WILLOW-WARE 

took  on  almost  a  singing  cadence,  the  cadence  • 
of  a  love  song.  Adeline's  cheeks  deepened  in 
color;  she  scarcely  raised  her  eyes.  She  heard 
the  sweet  tone  of  the  depths:  how  when  Elias 
said  the  weather  was  beautiful,  he  in  reality 
was  saying,  "How  beautiful  art  thou,  oh  my 
beloved,  and  how  my  heart  leaps  with  joy  at  the 
discovery  of  thee" 

Yet  Elias  Far  well  was  not  all  sentiment  and 
romance.  He  had  a  ready  wit,  and  often  Ade 
line  had  sore  work  to  keep  her  young  laughter 
within  bounds,  and  not  shock  her  aunts  and 
Dr.  Akers.  She  had  never  been  so  happy  in 
her  life,  and  yet  beneath  the  happiness  was 
ever  present  the  dreadful  memory  of  the  wil- 
lowj-  ware.  Now  that  the  maddening  sgell  of 
monotony  which  had  influenced  her  was  broken  ,. 
the  act  seemed  one  of  the  most  incredible  follies  |l 
as  well  as  of  wickedness. 

She  had  little  fear  that  her  aunts  would  men 
tion  it  while  at  the  tea-table;  she  knew  that 
they  might  account  it  a  breach  of  good  manners 
to  mention  a  loss  under  such  circumstances. 
However,  when  they  were  in  the  parlor  again/ 
she  listened  to  Elias,  with  her  ears  ready  for  the 
willow  -  ware.  Presently  it  came.  First  Miss 
Eliza  mentioned  the  mysterious  disappearance 
of  the  household  treasures,  then  Miss  Jane. 
Dr.  Akers  listened.  Then  he  responded  at  once 
171 


THE   FAIR   LAVINIA   AND   OTHERS 

with  what  seemed  a  solution  of  the  problem. 
A  man  had  been  at  his  own  home  a  few  days 
before,  and  had  tried  by  the  most  strenuous 
means  to  induce  him  to  sell  a  valuable  old 
clock  and  a  table.  He  was  a  collector  of  an 
tiques.  Dr.  Akers,  with  a  charitable  bias  tow 
ards  doubt,  voiced  his  suspicion  of  this  man. 
He  had  been  aggressive,  fairly  impertinent,  per 
haps  he — 

Miss  Eliza  immediately  concurred  with  his 
half-expressed  view.  She  had  little  doubt  that 
some  one  had  told  the  man  of  their  willow- ware, 
that  the  man  had  also  been  told  that  there  was 
no  hope  of  his  being  able,  to  purchase.  "  We 
often  have  the  side  door  unlocked,"  said  Miss 
Eliza;  "then  if  sister  and  I  were  in  our  rooms, 
and  Adeline  out — Hannah  does  not  hear  readily 
' — it  would  be  quite  possible." 

Miss  Jane  also  became  convinced.  "  In  fut 
ure  we  must  keep  that  door  locked,"  she  said. 
She  did  not  even  then  express  much  grief  for 
the  loss  of  the  china.  She  felt  grief,  but  she 
held  it  to  be  ill-bred  to  manifest  it.  Miss  Eliza, 
too,  was  restrained/"  Adeline  said  nothing. 
Elias  was  watching  her.  He  looked  puzzled 
and  concerned.  The  girl's  face  was  as  pale  as 
chalk,  her  eyes  were  dilated  as  with  fear.  She 
expected  every  moment  a  point-blank  ques 
tion,  as  to  when  she  had  last  seen  the  china. 

172 


THE   WILLOW-WARE 

She  felt  that  she  could  not  bear  it  before  him. 
Elias  leaned  over  and  almost  whispered  in  her 
ear: 

" Haven't  you  a  garden  behind  the  house?" 
he  asked. 

Adeline  nodded.     She  could  not  speak. 

Just  then  Dr.  Aker  asked  her  to  play.  She 
could  not  feel  her  feet  as  she  walked  towards 
the  ancient  piano/  Dr.  Akers  asked  for  ''Dew- 
fall,"  and  Elias  found  the  music  and  turned  the 
pages.  Adeline  always  wondered  how  she  ever 
got  through  it.  When  she  had  finished,  Elias 
spoke  rather  peremptorily: 

"It  is  charming,"  he  said — "charming;  but 
Miss  Weaver  cannot  play  again  now.  She  has 
promised  to  show  me  the  garden  before  dark." 

Miss  Eliza  looked  politely  dismayed.  In 
spite  of  her  sentimental  yearnings  over  the 
piece  of  music  called  "  Dewfall,"  she  had  passed 
the  age  when  she  cared  to  be  exposed  to  the 
reality  of  the  title.  She  thought  of  her  rheu 
matism,  she  felt  a  premonitory  twinge,  but  she 
rose  at  once.  Of  course  Adeline  could  not  be 
allowed  to  walk  in  the  garden  with  a  young 
man,  so  late,  without  a  chaperon.  "  Please 
get  my  white  shawl,  my  dear,"  she  said,  pa 
tiently  to  Adeline. 

But  Dr.  Akers  regarded  her  with  more  of 
romantic  reminiscence  than  usual.  He  begged 


THE    FAIR    LAVINIA   AND    OTHERS 

that  she  would  remain.  He  had  some  matters 
pertaining  to  the  church  to  discuss  with  her. 
Dr.  Akers  had  a  covert  sympathy  with  his 
nephew.  Then  it  was  Miss  Jane's  turn.  She 
rose  and  fluttered  perceptibly  like  a  bird  for  a 
second.  Then  she  sat  down  again.  It  was 
manifest  that  she  could  not  be  in  two  places  at 
once.  She  also  did  not  like  to  be  from  under 
the  shelter  of  a  roof  after  dewfall,  ~ancl  she 
considered  that  her  sister  as  well  as  Adeline 
required  a  chaperon. 

It  thus  happened  that  young  Elias  Farwell 
and  young  Adeline  Weaver  went  forth  alone 
into  the  garden  together.  Adeline  gathered 
up  her  filmy  muslin  skirts,  and  flitted  beside 
the  young  man  along  the  box-bordered  paths. 
The  dark  was  coming  rapidly,  and  a  heavy 
silver  steam  was  at  once  rising  and  falling. 
Clouds  from  the  moist,  warm  earth  met 
1  shafts  of  cloud  reaching  down  from  the  sky. 
Through  these  shafts  presently  the  moon  shone 
dimly,  turning  them  from  silver  to  a  mystery 
of  gold.  All  around  them  was  the  subtle  odor 
of  the  box,  and  also  of  roses  and  heliotrope. 
The  pair  walked  on  in  this  silver  and  gold  mist 
inhaling  the  bouquet  of  youth  and  summer. 
Adeline  had  taken  Elias's  arm.  Their  talk  at 
first  was  commonplace  enough.  Elias  inquired 
if  she  were  not  afraid  of  the  dampness,  and 
174 


THE   WILLOW-WARE 

Adeline  replied  that  she  was  not,  and  there 
had  been  a  world  of  tender  solicitude  and  re 
sponsive  trust  in  the  trite  remarks.  Then 
Adeline  said  something  about  the  odor  of  the 
box  being  so  evident,  and  that  some  people 
considered  it  unhealthy,  but  she  loved  it,  and 
Elias  replied,  fervently,  that  he  loved  it  too. 
He  felt  in  truth  as  if  he  loved  everything  which 
had  the  slightest  relation  to  this  lovely  creature 
on  his  arm.  They  walked  through  the  garden- 
paths  several  times ;  the  mist  deepened.  Ade- 1 
line's  face  was  as  dewy  as  a  flower.  Elias  laid  J 
his  hand  on  her  muslin  sleeve.  "Why,  your 
sleeve  is  wet,  fairly  wet,"  said  he. 

"  Perhaps  we  had  better  return  to  the  house," 
Adeline  said.  She  spoke  like  a  reluctant  child. 
A  little  laugh  sounded  at  her  side,  a  little  laugh 
of  tender  triumph  and  amusement. 

"  Nonsense,  you  do  not  want  to  go  in  and  sit 
with  my  uncle  and  your  aunts,"  he  said. 

Adeline  shrank  away  from  him  a  little.  "  But 
it  is  really  very  wet,"  she  said,  "such  a  heavy 
dew."  In  reality  she  dreaded  what  her  aunts 
might  think  if  she  came  in  with  her  new  muslin 
limp  and  draggled. 

Elias  had  an  inspiration.  "  You  do  not  want 
to  go  into  the  house,"  he  said.  "  Why  not  sit  for 
a  while  in  that  summer-house  we  just  passed. 
There  will  be  a  roof  over  our  heads  and  floor 


THE   FAIR   LAVINIA  AND  OTHERS 

under  our  feet.  Why?"  He  paused  in  amaze 
ment  at  the  violent  start  which  the  girl  beside 
him  gave.  Suddenly  she  remembered  the  wil 
low-ware. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  he  inquired,  anx 
iously. 

"Nothing,"  replied  Adeline,  faintly. 

"Come,  then,"  said  Elias.  Soon  the  two  sat 
side  by  side  in  the  summer-house,  gazing  out 
/  into  the  pale  luminousness  which  surrounded 
them,  and  out  of  which  the  scent  of  the  box 
called  like  a  voice  with  some  mystic  message. 
"What  is  the  name  of  the  piece  you  pIayed?Tf 
asked  Elias. 

"Dewfall." 

Elias  laughed  out.  "Who  taught  you  to 
play?"  he  asked. 

"Aunt  Eliza." 

Elias  laughed  again.  "That  is  the  reason 
why  you  touch  the  keys  as  if  you  had  little 
shell  thimbles  on  your  fingers,"  he  said. 

Adeline  laughed,  too.  She  was  not  at  all 
offended.  "  That  is  the  way  Aunt  Eliza  taught 
me,"  she  said — "the  way  she  used  to  play  it.  I 
don't  like  the  piece  very  well." 

"Nor  I.  But  when  you  play  your  fingers 
ought  to  kiss  the  keys,  not  peck  at  them.  Your 
aunt's  fingers  are  very  tapering." 

"Very." 

176 


THE   WILLOW-WARE 

Then  Elias  spoke  like  a  boy,  and  indeed  he 
was  little  more.  "I  am  twenty-three,"  said 
he.  "  How  old  are  you?" 

"Eighteen." 

"I  think  my  Uncle  Timothy  used  to  be 
rather  in  love  with  one  of  your  aunts,"  said 
Elias. 

"  I  think  so,"  Adeline  admitted,  tremulously. 

"Your  Aunt  Eliza?" 

"Yes." 

"If  they  had  been  married  we  should  have 
been  as  good  as  cousins,"  said  Elias.  "Your 
Aunt  Eliza  must  have  been  a  pretty  girl." 

"I  think  she  must  have  been." 

"I  wonder  if  they  ever  think  of  it  now.  It 
must  seem  very  far  away, ' '  Elias  said. 

"Yes." 

The  two  looked  at  each  other,  their  faces  were 
white  blurs.  They  were  almost  a  part  of  the 
shadows  around  them,  but  they  felt  their 
youth  in  every  vein.  They  were  something 
apart  from  the  elderly  people  in  the  house, 
they  triumphed  over  the  faint  languishing  of 
the  night. 

They  sat  so  close  that  their  shoulders  touched. 
Each  tried  to  conceal  the  fact  from  self-con 
sciousness  and  from  the  other.  Each  felt  for 
self,  the  most  sacred  modesty ;  for  the  other,  the 
most  sacred  respect ;  and  yet  their  young  shoul- 


THE   FAIR   LAVINIA   AND    OTHERS 

ders  touched,  and  such  thrills  of  sweetness 
passed  through  their  souls  and  their  bodies 
that  it-  seemed  as  if  light  and  perfume  and 
music  must  come  of  it. 

"  I  was  going  away  this  afternoon,"  Elias  said, 
in  a  whisper.  Adeline  shuddered  a  little  at  the 
thought;  they  sat  closer  to  each  other.  "  I  saw 
you  last  night  on  the  street  with  those  two 
girls,"  Elias  went  on,  ''and — I — decided  I 
would  not  go.  Uncle  Timothy  said  he  would 
bring  me  here  to  tea  to-night,  and  so  I — " 

His  voice  trailed  into  nothingness.  Sudden 
ly  the  young  man's  arm  was  around  the  girl's 
waist,  his  cheek  against  her  soft  cool  one,  his 
panting  whisper  in  her  ear:  "I — I  have  only 
known  you  a  few  hours,  a  few  minutes,"  he  said, 
"but — but  I  never  saw  any  one  like  you.  Can 
you  tell  so  soon  ?  Can  you  tell  if  you  can  ever 
care?  You  have  only  known  me  a  few  min 
utes — can  you— 

"I  have  known  you  forever,"  Adeline  whis 
pered  back. 

Then  they  kissed  each  other.  Adeline's  head 
sank  on  the  young  man's  shoulder.  She  was  in 
a  sort  of  ecstasy. 

"Then  you — can  tell,"  stammered  Elias. 
"You  can  tell  now  that  some  day  you  can  care 
enough  for  me  to  marry  me.  I— 

Elias  stopped  in  dismay.  Adeline  had  torn 
178 


THE   WILLOW-WARE 

/*> 

herself  from  his  arms.  She  was  on  her  feet. 
She  had  remembered  the  dreadful  thing  she 
had  done.  She  remembered  the  blue  china  4- 
under  the  very  floor  on  which  they  stood.  How 
could  she  tell  him?  And  yet  she  could  not 
marry  him  unless  she  did  tell. 

"It  is  very  damp  and  very  late,"  Adeline 
said,  in  a  quivering  but  peremptory  voice.  "  I 
must  return  to  the  house." 

With  that  she  was  already  in  the  path,  flitting 
ahead,  and  naught  for  Elias  to  do  but  to  follow 
her,  pressing  her  softly  with  anxious  questions, 
to  which  she  paid  no  heed.  Adeline  fairly  ran, 
and  soon  they  were  in  the  parlor  with  their 
elders,  and  Adeline  was  pale,  and  her  aunts, 
were  feeling  her  damp  muslin  with  dismay. 
Soon  Dr.  Akers  and  his  nephew  took  their 
leave,  and  Adeline  was  made  to  drink  a  glass 
of  port  to  ward  off  a  cold  before  she  went  to 
bed. 

The  next  day  Elias  Far  well  appeared  again, 
and  the  next,  and  the  next.  He  was  a  most 
ardent  wooer,  but  he  seemed  to  make  no  prog 
ress.  Adeline  gave  him  no  more  solitary  inter 
views.  She  looked  at  him  at  times  as  if  she 
loved  him,  but  also  as  if  she  were  afraid.  Young 
Elias  Far  well  did  not  underrate  his  attractions. 
He  was  no  faint  heart.  He  remained  in  the 
village  as  his  uncle's  guest,  and  he  laid  siege  to 
179 


THE   FAIR    LAVINIA  AND  OTHERS 

Adeline  day  after  day.  But  it  was  a  full  month 
before  he  discovered  the  obstacle  to  his  wooing. 
One  Thursday  evening  he  was  taking  tea  at  the 
Weaver  mansion  with  his  uncle,  and  the  sub 
ject  of  the  willow- ware  was  broached  again. 
He  happened  to  be  looking  at  Adeline,  and 
something  in  her  face  betrayed  her.  He  did 
not  know  what  the  secret  was,  but  he  knew 
that  she  had  a  secret  concerning  the  missing 
china  which  made  her  heart  sore. 

That  evening  for  the  first  time  Adeline  weak 
ened,  and  the  two  went  out  in  the  garden  again. 
Now  the  roses  were  gone,  but  the  scent  of  the 
box  endured  under  a  clear  sky,  through  which 
the  great  lustre  of  the  moon  floated.  They  sat 
down  in  the  summer-house  again,  and  Elias 
laid  his  hand  resolutely  on  the  girl's. 

"  Now  you  must  tell  me,"  said  he.  "  I  know 
a  good  deal  already.  You  have  shunned  me 
because  of  the  willow- ware.  Why?  What  has 
a  set  of  blue  and  white  china's  disappearance 
to  do  with  you  and  me?" 

"It  is  under  this  floor,"  Adeline  said,  in  a 
strained  voice. 

Elias  stared  at  her.     "Under  this  floor?" 

''Yes,  there  were  two  loose  boards." 

"You  put  it  there?" 

"Yes." 

"Why?" 

1 80 


THE   WILLOW-WARE 

"Because — I  had  seen  you,  and  I  thought 
you  had  gone,  and — -because — " 

"Because  what?" 

"Because  every  day  was  like  every  other, 
and  I  was  tired  of  it."  Adeline  began  to  weep. 

Elias  broke  into  a  peal  of  laughter,  and  caught 
her  in  his  arms.  "  Lord !  I  should  have  smashed 
the  willow- ware,  every  dish  of  it,  long  before 
now  if  I  had  had  to  live  the  way  you  do  with 
your  dear  old  aunts,  with  every  day  the  same, 
except  when  Uncle  came  to  tea,  and  you  had 
to  play  'Dewfall'!"  said  he. 

"You  understand?"  faltered  Adeline. 

"  I  think  you  can  never  do  anything  which  I 
shall  not  be  able  to  understand,"  said  Elias 
Far  well. 

The  next  Thursday  evening  the  uncle  and 
nephew  came  again  to  the  Weaver  mansion  to 
tea.  Adeline  wore  a  pearl  ring  on  her  engagement 
finger.  Her  aunts  and  Dr.  Akers  approved  of 
the  match,  and  Elias 's  mother  had  written  her 
a  beautiful  letter.  And  the  table  was  set  with 
the  willow- ware.  The  Misses  Weaver  looked 
years  younger.  They  seemed  to  have  gotten 
renewed  vitality.  They  talked  quite  loudly, 
quite  rapidly.^ 

"Only  think,"  said  Miss  Eliza,  "Hannah 
opened  the  door,  and  there  was  the  willow- 
ware." 

181 


THE    FAIR   LAVINIA  AND   OTHERS 

"Yes,"  said  Miss  Jane,  "every  piece." 

"Probably  the  man  grew  conscience  stricken 
and  brought  it  back ;  the  side  door  was  left  un 
locked  the  night  before,"  said  Miss  Eliza. 

"It  is  beautiful  how  much  honesty  and  good 
ness  there  is  in  this  world,  after  all,"  said  Miss 
Jane.  Her  eyes  sparkled  with  radiant  excite 
ment.  Nobody  knew  what  the  disappearance 
and  mysterious  recovery  of  the  willow- ware 
meant  to  the  Misses  Weaver. 

They  had  probably  not  realized  it  in  the 
least,  but  the  monotony  of  their  lives  had  told 
upon  them  as  well  as  upon  their  niece.  They 
had  become  wearily  stagnated.  Now  all  was 
changed.  In  spite  of  their  natural  grief,  when 
Adeline  had  married  Elias  Farwell  and  gone 
away  to  live,  they  seemed  to  acquire  an  after- 
bloom  in  their  old  age.  It  was  all  due  to  the 
willow- ware.  "  It  would  be  fairly  cruel  to  tell 
them,"  Elias  often  said  to  Adeline,  when  her 
conscience  smote  her,  and  he  was  right.  Not  a 
day  but  had  its  savor  of  mystery  and  excite 
ment — because — who  could  tell  if  the  willow- 
ware  would  be  on  its  accustomed  shelves  when 
the  china-closet  door  was  opened  or  not?  Jt^ 
was  a  shock  of  happiness  which  acted  like  some 
subtle  stimulant  for  their  spirits  when  they 
found  the  china  intact.  The  ever  present  won 
der  if  they  might  not,  was  another.  Even  Dr. 

182 


THE    WILLOW-WARE 

Akers  wrote  new  sermons  under  this  strange 
influence.  He  went  home  in  those  days  from 
the  Weaver  mansion  feeling  an  odd  mental 
strengthening  after  a  discussion  about  the 
willow-ware.  Right  or  wrong,  they  had  all 
gotten  a  jolt  towards  happiness  out  of  their 
ruts  of  life,  which  had  been  wearing  their  very 
souls  bare  of  youth  and  hope. 
13 


THE  SECRET 


THE   SECRET 


CATHERINE  GOULD  came  hurrying  into 
V_>  the  house  at  half -past  eight.  John  Grea- 
son,  the  man  to  whom  she  was  engaged,  sat  in 
the  south  room  with  her  mother  and  her  aunt 
Sarah.  There  were  a  light  and  a  fire  in  the 
best  parlor,  but,  since  Catherine  was  not  at 
home  when  he  arrived,  John  sat  down  with 
her  mother  and  aunt.  They  had  all  waited  for 
Catherine  with  a  curious  impatience.  It  was 
not  very  late  when  John  arrived,  only  quarter 
of  eight,  but  Catherine  was  always  there  to 
welcome  him,  and  this  night  she  was  not,  and 
for  some  reason  it  struck  them  all  as  being 
singular. 

"I  don't  see  where  Catherine  is,"  her  mother 
kept  saying,  uneasily,  as  they  waited. 

"  Maybe  she  ran  down  to  the  post-office  or 

the  store,"  suggested  Aunt  Sarah.     Aunt  Sarah 

was  knitting  some  white,  fleecy  wool   into  aw 

shawl.     She   also  was  perturbed,  but  nothing 

187 


THE   FAIR   LAVINIA   AND   OTHERS 

ever  stopped  her  knitting.  She  always  kept 
her  hands  employed  at  some  little,  soft,  femi 
nine  task  like  that,  and  it  had  become  as  in 
voluntary  with  her  as  breathing.  So  she  knit 
ted  on,  although  she  listened  for  Catherine's 
step,  and  frequently  glanced  at  the  clock. 

When  she  made  her  remark  about  the  post- 
office  and  the  store,  John  Greason  frowned. 
He  was  a  handsome  young  man  with  a  square 
jaw.  He  had  brought  a  box  of  candy  for 
Catherine,  and  it  was  on  his  knees  as  he  sat 
waiting. 

"The  last  mail  comes  in  at  five  o'clock,"  said 
he.  "I  went  into  the  store  on  my  way  here, 
and  Catherine  wasn't  there.  And  I  should  have 
met  her  if  she  had  been  on  her  way  home." 

"That  is  so,"  said  Catherine's  mother.  "I 
don't  see  where  she  is.  She  never  goes  out 
without  telling  where  she  is  going,  and  she 
expected  you,  too." 

"Oh,  I  dare  say  she  has  just  run  out  some 
where,"  said  John.  He  tried  to  speak  easily, 
but  failed.  In  spite  of  himself,  he  frowned. 
He  was  angry,  albeit  unwarrantably  so.  He 
was  an  only  son  and  things  had  always  gone 
his  way.  His  mother  and  two  sisters  had  al 
ways  made  things  go  his  way.  If  John  had  not 
what  he  wanted  when  he  wanted  it,  they  would 
have  felt  as  if  something  was  wrong  with  the 
188 


THE   SECRET 

universe.  Now  it  seemed  inconceivable  to  him 
that  Catherine  should  have  gone  out  when  she 
expected  him,  and  when  he  always  came  at  ex 
actly  quarter  of  eight.  He  tried  to  converse 
easily  about  the  weather  and  the  village  news. 
He  became  every  moment  prouder  and  angrier 
and  more  resolved  that  nobody  should  know. 
If  Catherine  Gould  chose  to  go  out  when  she 
knew  he  was  coming,  and  not  tell  where  she  was 
going,  and  keep  him  waiting,  nobody  should 
know  that  he  felt  it  in  the  least. 

Catherine's  mother  kept  looking  out  of  a 
window.  He  sat  rigidly  with  his  back  to  one. 
The  curtains  were  not  drawn ;  outside  there  was 
snow  on  the  ground  and  there  was  a  full  moon, 
so  looking  out  of  the  windows  was  like  look 
ing  into  a  bright,  white  world.  John  would  not 
look.  When  Catherine's  mother  looked  he  grew 
more  and  more  incensed.  He  began  to  con 
sider  the  advisability  of  his  going  home;  then 
at  last,  just  after  the  clock  had  struck  one  for 
half -past  eight,  Catherine's  mother  cried  out 
with  joyful  relief: 

"Here  she  is!" 

"Well,  I  do  wonder  where  she  has  been," 
said  Sarah,  also  with  joyful  relief. 

John  said  nothing.  His  face  looked  very 
heavy  and  sullen.  He  was  also  quite  pale. 

Catherine  came  in  all  rosy  and  glowing  with 
189 


THE   FAIR   LAVINIA   AND    OTHERS 

the  cold  wind.  She  came  in  as  if  there  had 
been  nothing  unusual  whatever  about  her  dis 
appearance.  "  Oh,  it  is  cold,"  said  she.  "  Good- 
evening,  John.  Have  you  been  here  long?" 

"He  has  been  here  ever  since  quarter  of 
eight,"  said  her  mother.  "Where  have  you 
been,  Catherine?" 

John  said  nothing.  He  glanced  with  cold 
inquiry  at  Catherine  from  under  his  heavy  lids. 
Catherine  was  laughing.  She  was  about  to 
answer,  when  she  caught  that  look.  Then  she 
laughed  again  and  said  nothing.  She  was  a 
very  pretty,  fairly  a  beautiful,  girl.  She  was 
j dressed  all  in  red — red  hat,  red  coat,  and  red 
(  gown;  there  were  glints  of  red  in  her  brown 
hair.  She  removed  her  hat  and  coat,  and,  going 
I  to  a  glass  which  hung  between  the  two  front 
windows,  thrust  her  slender  fingers  into  the 
puff  of  brown  hair  over  her  forehead  and  fluffed 
it  out,  still  laughing.  Then  she  turned  and 
looked  at  them.  Her  whole  face  was  dimpling 
with  mischief.  She  was  so  beautiful  that  her 
mother  felt  a  thrill  of  worshipful  pride  in  her, 
and  her  aunt  Sarah  also.  As  for  John  Greason, 
he  looked  at  her,  and  his  mouth  straightened. 

"Why  don't  you  tell  where  you  have  been, 
Catherine  ? ' '  asked  her  mother.  She  tried  to  make 
her  voice  chiding,  but  it  was  full  of  tenderness. 

Catherine  only  laughed. 
190 


THE   SECRET 

"Why,  Catherine  Gould,  where  have  you 
been?"  asked  her  aunt. 

Catherine  answered  for  the  first  time,  but 
not  satisfactorily. 

"That  is  a  secret,"  said  she,  and  tossed  her 
head  and  laughed  again.  She  moved  towards 
the  door  and  looked  gayly  at  John,  evidently 
expecting  him  to  rise  and  follow  her  into  the 
parlor,  but  he  sat  still.  "  There's  a  light  in  the 
parlor,  John,"  said  she. 

Then  he  questioned  her  for  the  first  time. 
"Where  have  you  been?"  he  asked. 

Catherine  looked  at  him.  She  hesitated. 
Then  she  again  gave  her  head  that  gay,  defiant 
toss.  "That  is  a  secret,"  said  she. 

"Why  don't  you  tell  him?"  asked  her  moth 
er,  anxiously. 

Martha  Gould  was  a  tall,  ascetic  -  looking 
woman,  with  great  eyes  sunken  in  deep  hollows. 
She  had  a  curious  way  of  puckering  her  mouth, 
and  at  the  same  time  wrinkling  her  forehead 
between  the  two  leaflike  curves  of  her  gray  hair. 
Her  sister-in-law,  Sarah  Gould,  who  had  been 
in  her  day  a  very  pretty  girl,  much  like  Cath 
erine,  but  had  never  married,  knitted  and  eyed 
her  niece.  She  had  been  engaged  to  be  mar 
ried  in  her  late  youth,  but  her  lover  had  died. 
Since  then  she  had  occupied  herself  with  the 
small  interests  of  life. 

191 


THE   FAIR    LAVINIA  AND   OTHERS 

"  Aren't  you  coming  into  the  parlor,  John?" 
Catherine  asked  again.  A  deeper  red  blazed 
out  on  her  cheeks. 

''Where  have  you  been?"  asked  John,  stead 
ily  gazing  at  her. 

"That  is  a  secret,"  replied  Catherine,  but 
this  time  she  did  not  laugh. 

"Why  don't  you  tell  John  where  you  have 
been,  Catherine?"  her  mother  asked,  looking 
uneasily  from  one  to  the  other.  At  that  mo 
ment  the  two  faces — those  of  the  man  and  girl 
—looked  singularly  alike,  although  none  could 
be  more  different  in  feature  and  coloring.  But 
they  wore  the  same  expression.  A  terrible 
similarity  of  unyielding  spirit  shone  forth  from 
both  which  marked  them  as  mates.  If  they 
had  been  brother  and  sister  instead  of  lover 
and  sweetheart,  the  likeness  could  not  have 
been  more  evident.  John  rose  slowly  to  his 
feet.  The  little  candy-box  in  his  clinched 
hand  was  an  absurdity  compared  with  his 
whole  bearing.  He  looked  at  Catherine,  and 
she  looked  back  at  him.  The  mother  and 
aunt  looked  at  both  of  them.  The  mother 
opened  her  mouth  as  if  to  speak  again,  then 
closed  it.  The  ball  of  white  wool  rolled  from 
the  aunt's  lap  onto  the  floor.  Catherine  pick 
ed  it  up  and  returned  it. 

11  Thank  you,"  said  the  aunt,  and  there  was 
192 


THE   SECRET 

something  awful  about  that  commonplace  act 
and  speech  in  the  midst  of  the  tensity  of  mood 
which  seemed  to  fill  the  little  room  like  an 
imminent  explosive.  Immediately  John  Grea- 
son  gave  the  box  of  candy  a  violent  fling.  It 
just  missed  Catherine,  although  he  certainly 
did  not  aim  it  especially  in  her  direction.  The 
box  struck  the  floor,  burst  asunder,  and  all  thej 
sweet  contents  rolled  out.  Then  John  Grea- 
son  strodeTroin  the  room  and  the  house  without 
another  word.  He  closed  the  front  door  with 
aggressive  caution.  One  could  scarcely  hear  it. 

The  women  remained  for  a  few  seconds  as  if 
petrified — Catherine  standing,  with  her  mother 
and  aunt  looking  at  her.  They  were  all  pale, 
but  different  emotions  were  evident  on  their 
faces.  On  Catherine's  mother's  were  bewil 
derment,  terror,  and  anger;  on  the  aunt's,  be 
wilderment  and  terror;  on  Catherine's,  the  ex 
cess  of  angry  obstinacy. 

The  mother  spoke  first.  "  Well,  of  all  things!" 
said  she. 

The  aunt  followed.  "  Throwing  candy  round !" 
she  said,  and  her  tone  was  nearly  idiotic.  The 
situation  was  in  reality  too  much  for  her  wits. 
Mysteries  had  always  overwhelmed  her,  and 
here  were  mysteries  upon  mysteries — a  very 
mountain  of  them.  In  the  first  place,  where 
had  Catherine  been?  In  the  second  place, 


THE    FAIR   LAVINIA   AND   OTHERS 

why  would  she  not  tell?  In  the  third  place, 
why  such  a  fuss  about  it,  anyway  ?  Then,  why 
were  Catherine  and  John  so  angry  ?  Why  had 
John  flung  the  candy?  Her  pretty,  faded  eyes 
settled  upon  the  candy.  "As  much  as  two 
pounds,"  she  remarked,  "all  over  the  floor, 
chocolates  and  bonbons." 

Then  Catherine  spoke,  and  her  voice  was  ter 
rible.  "I'll  pick  it  up  before  it  gets  trodden 
into  the  carpet,"  said  she,  and  forthwith  was 
down  upon  her  knees,  gathering  up  the  scat 
tered  sweets. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?"  asked  her 
mother,  with  a  sort  of  gasp. 

"Pick  up  this  candy,"  replied  Catherine,  in 
her  terrible  voice. 

"  No,  I  didn't  mean  about  the  candy — about 
John?  Are  you — going  with  him  again?" 

"A  girl  doesn't  go  with  a  little  boy,  and 
marry  him  after  she  finds  it  out,"  replied  Cath 
erine,  picking  up  a  pink  bonbon. 

The  mother  and  aunt  looked  at  each  other. 
They  even  nodded  in  pantomime  for  the  other 
to  continue  the  questioning. 

"Why  wouldn't  you  tell  him  where  you'd 
been?"  the  aunt  asked  finally,  in  her  sweet, 
scared  little  pipe. 

"Because  he  asked,"  replied  Catherine. 

"Because  he— asked?"  repeated  Mrs.  Gould. 
194 


THE   SECRET 

Catherine  turned  a  set  face  upon  her.  "  Moth 
er,"  said  she,  "let  us  have  no  more  talk  about 
this.  I  have  nothing  more  to  say.  There  is 
nothing  more  I  will  say.  John  suspected  me 
of  going  somewhere  or  doing  something  I  should 
not.  HP  qiipsfinnpH  rnfi  like  a,  slave  -  owner. 
If  he  does  so  before  I  am  married,  what  will  he 
do  after  ?  My  life  would  be  a  hell.  If  I  see  that 
a  door  leads  into  hell,  I  don't  propose  to  enter 
it  if  I  can  keep  out.  That's  all  I  have  to  say." 

"Oh  my,  Catherine!"  the  aunt  cried,  in  hor 
ror. 

But  Catherine's  mother  supported  her,  after 
a  fashion.  "  I  know  what  you  mean,"  said  she. 
"I  never  saw  a  grown-up  man  do  such  a  silly, 
childish  thing  as  to  throw  that  candy  on  the 
floor  that  way.  There's  another  piece  under 
that  rocking-chair.  He  has  got  an  awful  tem 
per,  and  one  you  can't  reckon  with  in  a  grown 
man.  If  he  was  a  child,  you  could  spank  him, 
but  as  long  as  he's  a  man — " 

"I  don't  call  him  a  man,"  interposed  Cath 
erine. 

The  aunt  continued,  "As  long  as  he's  a  man,"*, 
said  she,  "all  a  woman  can  do  is  to  sit  still' 
and  do  nothing." 

"  I  am  not  going  to  sit  still  and  do  nothing," 
Catherine  said.  She  straightened  herself  and 
puckered  up  her  red  dress  skirt  into  a  bag  for 


THE    FAIR   LAVINIA   AND    OTHERS 

the  candy  and  broken  box,  then  went  towards 
the  door. 

" Where  are  you  going  now,  Catherine?" 
her  mother  inquired,  anxiously. 

"  I  am  going  to  dispose  of  this  candy." 

Catherine  opened  the  door  into  the  icy  en 
try  and  closed  it  quickly  behind  her,  lest  the 
cold  air  strike  her  mother  and  aunt.  She  was 
very  considerate.  The  two  elder  women  looked 
at  each  other. 

"What  do  you  suppose  she's  going  to  do 
with  it?"  the  aunt  asked,  feebly. 

"  I  suppose  she's  going  to  give  it  a  fling  after 
the  one  that  brought  it,"  replied  Catherine's 
mother,  sternly.  She  was  growing  more  and 
more  incensed.  It  always  required  some  time 
to  work  Martha  Gould  into  her  farthest  height 
of  resentment,  but,  once  there,  her  mental  foot 
ing  was  secure. 

"Land!"  said  Sarah  Gould.  The  word  with 
her  meant  a  great  deal.  She  could  hardly 
have  gotten  through  the  world  without  it. 

The  women  heard  the  front  outside  door 
open.  Catherine's  mother  sprang  to  the  win 
dow.  She  saw  a  white  object  with  a  shower 
of  smaller  ones  describe  an  arc  and  land  in  the 
glittering  snow  of  the  front  yard. 

"Has  she?"  hissed  Sarah,  in  a  whisper  of 
tragedy. 

196 


THE   SECRET 

Martha  turned  towards  her  and  nodded  with 
a  jerk  as  Catherine  came  into  the  room  again, 
closing  the  door  noiselessly  and  solicitously  be 
hind  her.  The  girl  held  her  head  up  proudly; 
not  a  whit  of  her  beautiful  color  was  dimmed. 
She  was  even  laughing  with  apparently  no  ef 
fort  whatever  and  with  no  bitterness.  "The 
sparrows  will  have  a  good  breakfast  to-morrow," 
said  she. 

Her  mother  gave  a  grim  nod.  Her  aunt 
made  a  little  whimpering  sound. 

"  I  don't  see  how  you  can—  '  she  began, 
feebly,  but  her  sister,  Catherine's  mother,  in 
terrupted  her  fiercely. 

"What  do  you  want?"  she  demanded.  "Do 
you  want  her  to  sit  down  and  cry  because  that 
good-for-nothing  fellow  has  treated  her  mean?" 

"  No-o,"  protested  Sarah,  who  was  herself  half 
weeping — "no-o,  you  know  I  don't,  Martha." 

"Then  why  are  you  talking  so?  And  I  de 
clare,  you  are  half  crazy!  Anybody  would 
think  it  was  your  beau." 

Sarah  began  to  weep  in  good  earnest  then, 
putting  her  handkerchief  to  her  working  face. 
"It  is  only  because  I  do  hate  to  see  folks  qua] 
rel,"  she  sobbed.     "Folks  feel  bad  when  they 
quarrel,  especially  after  they  have  thought  a 
good  deal  of  each  other,   no  matter  if — they 
do — try  to  laugh  it  off." 
197 


THE   FAIR    LAVINIA  AND   OTHERS 

" There  is  no  quarrel  that  I  know  of,"  said 
Catherine,  coolly.  She  laid  some  hat-pins  side 
by  side  on  the  table  and  straightened  a  bow  on 
her  hat.  "Miss  Holmes  ought  to  have  put 
some  wire  in  this  bow,"  she  said.  "Every 
time  I  go  out  in  the  wind  it  flops." 

"Yes,  she  ought,"  returned  her  mother. 

Sarah  gasped.  Two  people  talking  about 
wire  in  a  hat-bow  in  such  a  crisis  struck  her 
like  blasphemy. 

"I  thought  you  had  quarrelled  with  him," 
she  ventured,  in  a  faint  voice,  followed  by  a 
little  sob  like  a  bewildered  child's. 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Catherine,  still  engaged 
in  perking  her  hat-bow.  "John  Greason  has 
simply  gone  home  in  a  huff  like  a  six-year-old 
boy  because  he  was  thwarted  in  his  curiosity 
and  suspicion.  A  quarrel  requires  two  parties, 
and  there  is  only  one.  I  have  not  quarrelled 
in  the  least." 

"But—"  faltered  the  aunt,  "I  don't  see  why 
you  couldn't  have  told  where  you  had  been." 

"So  I  could  if  I  had  been  asked,"  replied 
Catherine. 

"  You  were  asked." 

,/'  No,  I  was  suspected.     I  don't  answer  sus 
picions.     I  am  above  suspicion.     I  have  been 
all  my  life,  and  I  always  shall  be."     Catherine 
gave  her  beautiful  head  a  toss.     She  seemed 
198 


THE   SECRET 

taller.  The  steady  gleam  of  her  brown  eyes 
and  the  noble  curves  of  her  broad  temples 
seemed  indeed  to  render  suspicion  something 
far  from  her  just  due.  Still,  her  mother  began 
to  look  anxious.  When  Catherine  sat  down 
before  the  stove,  turning  up  the  skirt  of  her 
red  dress  and  displaying  a  beruffled  silk  petti 
coat,  and  remarked  casually  that  it  was  a  bit 
ter  night  outside  and  it  did  seem  good  to  be 
in  where  it  was  warm,  her  mother  continued 
to  regard  her  with  a  doubtful  and  anxious 
frown.  After  the  aunt  had  gathered  up  her 
work,  lit  her  bedroom  lamp,  and  retired,  she 
spoke  her  mind  freely. 

"I  hope  you  have  done  right,  Catherine," 
she  said. 

Catherine  gave  her  a  quick  glance  over  her 
shoulder.  "You  don't  think  I've  been  down 
to  the  hotel  drinking  or  any  wild  and  desperate 
thing,  I  hope,  mother,"  she  said. 

"No,  it  isn't  that,  Catherine.  I  know  wher 
ever  you  were  it  was  no  harm,  and  in  a  way  I 
don't  blame  you  for  not  telling  when  you  were } 
questioned  the  way  you  were.  It  was  enough 
to  make  anybody  mad.  It  made  me  mad,  but 
I  wonder  if  you  have  done  right,  after  all,  in 
not  telling  him." 

"I  have  done  the  only  way  a  girl  with  any 
pricfe  could  have  done." 

14  199 


THE   FAIR    LAVINIA  AND    OTHERS 

"  Maybe  you  have,  but — well,  you  know, 
Catherine,  John  Greason  is  a  good,  steady  fel 
low."  / 

"  So  is  a  mule  sometimes,"  interposed  Cath 
erine. 

"Well,  of  course,  you  are  only  twenty-three, 
and  there  are  more  chances  than  one — " 

"  I  had  chances  before  John  Greason,  and  I 
didn't  have  to  hunt  for  any  of  them,"  returned 
Catherine. 

"That  is  so." 

"  But  I  don't  care  about  chances.  What 
earthly  difference  does  it  make?  We  have 
•enough  to  live  on.  I  have  all  I  want.  What 
'•>  do  I  care  if  I  never  get  married?  Most  of  the 
imarried  women  I  know  would  say  they  wished 
they  were  out  of  it,  if  they  told  the  truth.  It's 
a  lot  of  care  and  responsibility.  A  girl  can 
have  a  much  better  time." 

"  Yes,  but  a  woman  can't  keep  herself  a  girl 
always,"  said  Catherine's  mother,  and  an  odd 
expression  came  over  her  face — an  expression 
of  reminiscent  tenderness  and  softness,  and  also 
a  shade  of  embarrassment. 

Catherine  turned  and  looked  at  her  moth 
er  keenly  with  her  clear,  proud  young  eyes. 
"Mother,"  said  she — she  hesitated  a  moment, 
then  she  continued — "did  you  never  regret 
that  you  got  married?" 

200 


THE   SECRET 

The    mother    blushed.     She    regarded    her 
daughter  with  a  curious,  dignified,  yet  shamed 
expression.     "Marriage    is    a    divine    institu-^ 
tion,"  said  she,  and  closed  her  lips  tightly. 

"Oh,  nonsense!"  cried  Catherine.  "Tell  the 
truth,  mother,  and  let  the  divine  institution 
go.  I  know  father  was  a  fretful  invalid  two- 
thirds  of  the  time.  I  have  heard  all  about 
that  from  Aunt  Sarah.  I  know  until  grand 
mother  died  you  had  a  hard  struggle  to  get 
along  and  make  both  ends  meet,  because  she 
didn't  like  your  marrying  father,  and  wouldn't 
help  you,  and  father  never  was  much  of  a  suc 
cess  as  a  doctor;  he  had  such  a  temper  and  was 
so  miserable  himself.  And  I  know  you  had, 
five  children  as  fast  as  you  could,  and  they  all 
died  except  me.  Now  tell  me  the  truth — if 
you  had  it  all  to  live  over  again,  would  you 
marry  father?" 

The  flush  faded  from  Mrs.  Gould's  face.  She 
was  quite  pale.  "  Yes,  I  would,  and  thank  the 
Lord  for  His  unspeakable  mercy,"  she  said,  in 
a  low,  oratorical  voice,  almost  as  if  she  were  in 
a  pulpit.  Then  the  red  flashed  over  her  face, 
again,  but  the  embarrassment  was  gone.  Now 
she  looked  at  her  daughter  triumphantly,  even 
with  superiority.  "  I  was  married  when  I  was 
eighteen  years  old,  five  years  younger  than 
you  are,"  said  she. 

201 


THE   FAIR    LAVINIA  AND   OTHERS 

"  I  could  have  been  if  I  had  chosen,'*  replied 
Catherine,  with  a  look  of  wonder. 

"  I  know  you  could.  It  is  your  own  fault 
if  you  have  missed  the  best  this  life  has  for 
any  woman.  It  is  your  fault, now,  and  it  will 
be  your  fault.  Where  were  you  to-night?" 

Catherine  rose,  frowning  angrily.  Then  sud 
denly  her  face  relaxed,  and  she  laughed  a  merry 
peal.  "You  would  go  straight  over  and  tell 
John  Greason,  cold  as  it  is,  and  scared  as  you 
are  to  go  out  alone  at  night,"  said  she.  "  No, 
mother,  I  don't  tell  where  I  was,  and  as  for 
missing  the  best  of  life,  I'll  risk  it.  I'm  going 
to  bed.  I'm  going  to  help  Alice  Leeds  get  her 
house  ready  for  her  afternoon  tea  to-morrow, 
and  I  promised  to  be  over  early." 

"  You  might  be  getting  your  own  house  ready 
for  an  afternoon  tea." 

Catherine  laughed  again.  "As  if  this  house 
wasn't  my  home,  and  as  pretty  and  enough 
sight  prettier  than  Alice  Leeds 's,  and  as  if  I 
couldn't  have  an  afternoon  tea  if  I  wanted  it. 
I  think  I  will,  next  month." 

"It  isn't  the  same." 

"  I  am  satisfied.  Alice  Leeds's  husband 
doesn't  want  her  to  have  it,  and  is  as  cranky 
as  fury  for  fear  his  dinner  will  be  late  on  account 
of  it.  I  am  going  to  try  to  get  the  people  off 
in  season,  and  help  Alice  hustle  away  the  com- 
202 


THE   SECRET 

pany  fixings,  and  get  her  precious  husband's 
dinner  on  the  table  so  he  won't  scold.  Her 
Eliza  is  coming  down  with  the  grip,  and  she 
can't  depend  too  much  on  her.  I  told  her  Jane 
would  come  over,  but  one  maid  is  hardly  enough 
if  Eliza  should  be  laid  up." 

"Are  men  coming?"  asked  Mrs.  Gould. 

Catherine  laughed  again  as  she  lit  her  candle, 
and  the  soft  light  flared  over  her  beautiful  face. 
"Men  are  asked,"  she  replied,  "but  it  is  like 
man  supposes  and  God  disposes.  It  is  Satur 
day  afternoon,  and  there  is  no  reason  why  men 
can't  come  if  they  want  to;  but  the  question  is, 
Will  they  want  to?  I  suppose  John  Greason 
would  have  come  if  he  hadn't  insulted  me  with 
suspecting  that  I  could  not  be  out  for  an  hour 
after  dark  without  being  in  some  awful  mis 
chief,  if  that  is  what  you  mean.  Now  I  don't 
suppose  he  will.  I  should  not  think  he  would. 
Good- night,  mother;  don't  worry  over  it." 

If  Catherine  did  not  sleep  that  night,  there 
was  no  evidence  of  it  in  her  brilliant  face  when 
she  came  down  to  breakfast  the  next  morning. 
Her  mother  looked  as  if  she  had  not  closed  her 
eyes,  and  Catherine  shot  a  quick  glance  of 
anxiety  and  annoyance  at  her. 

"For  goodness'  sake,  mother,  lie  down  after 
breakfast  and  see  if  you  can't  get  a  nap,"  she 
said,  when  the  maid  had  gone  into  the  kitchen 
203 


THE   FAIR   LAVINIA   AND    OTHERS 

for  more  muffins.  "You  will  not  be  fit  to  go 
this  afternoon.'* 

"I  thought  maybe  I  wouldn't,"  Catherine's 
mother  replied,  rather  piteously.  She  had  a 
high  spirit  of  her  own,  but  not  much  physical 
strength,  and  her  indignation  no  longer  served 
as  a  tonic. 

"  Nonsense!"  returned  Catherine.  "  Of  course 
you  are  going.  There  you  have  that  beautiful 
dress  all  ready — " 

"  I  don't  know— " 

"  I  know." 

"I  thought  perhaps  7  wouldn't  go  either," 
remarked  Aunt  Sarah,  who  was  nibbling  at  some 
cereal,  with  an  injured  air. 

"Of  course  you  are  going  too.  Haven't  you 
got  that  handsome  new  bonnet  on  purpose? 
Goodness!  you  two  don't  want  Greason's  folks 
to  think  we  are  breaking  our  hearts  because  he 
went  home  last  night  and  flung  a  box  of  candy 
at  me.  Mrs.  Greason  and  Lottie  and  Mrs. 
Ames  are  sure  to  be  there,  with  their  eyes  and 
ears  open,  too.  Trust  them.  There  is  one 
thing — if  I  don't  have  to  marry  John,  I  shall 
be  rid  of  his  family,  and  I  must  confess  that  I 
always  did  wonder  how  I  would  get  on  with 
my  in-laws." 

"John  is  the  best  of  them,"  acceded  Sarah 
Gould,  tearfully,  taking  another  bit  of  well- 
204 


THE   SECRET 

sweetened  cereal.  "I  always  said  it  wouldn't 
be  the  easiest  thing  in  the  world  to  get  on  with 
his  folks." 

"And  I  should  have  simply  been  obliged  to 
combine  with  the  whole  lot  Thanksgivings  and 
Christmases  and  wedding  anniversaries,"  said 
Catherine.  "  There's  no  loss  without  a  con 
siderable  gain.  Small  gain  does  not  seem  the 
thing  in  this  case.  I  think  myself  I  have  clear 
ed  a  good  six  per  cent."  Catherine  had  con 
siderable  experience  in  business  matters.  She 
managed  the  property  which  kept  them  in 
comfort,  young  as  she  was.  The  two  elder 
women  were  entirely  helpless  in  that  respect. 
After  Catherine's  father's  death,  his  elder  broth 
er  had  taken  charge,  but  since  his  death,  two 
years  before,  Catherine  had  proved  herself 
amply  able  to  conduct  matters.  She  was  in 
reality  rather  a  masterly  girl.  When  she  was 
out  in  the  clear  morning  air,  which  bit  like 
steel,  for  the  roads  were  frost-bound  and  every 
thing  glittering  with  ice  crystals,  she  held  her 
head  high  and  swung  along  with  an  instinct  joy 
of  existence,  although  she  was  encountering  the 
first  real  trouble  of  her  life.  She  could  not  re 
member  when  her  father  died.  She  had  not 
particularly  cared  for  her  uncle,  who  had  not 
particularly  cared  for  her,  and  his  death  had 
not  affected  her.  But  she  had  been  in  love, 
205 


THE    FAIR    LAVINIA   AND   OTHERS 

and  was  now,  with  John  Greason,  and  what  had 
happened  last  night  was  no  light  matter  to  her ; 
but  her  pride  and  her  innate  joy  in  existence 
itself,  aside  from  its  conditions,  sustained  her 
like  a  sort  of  spiritual  backbone.  She  thought, 
as  she  passed  a  house  on  the  way  and  caught  a 
glimpse  of  a  girl's  blond  head  at  a  window  be 
hind  a  row  of  red  geraniums — a  head  which  in 
stantly  ducked  as  if  to  avoid  an  exchange  of 
courtesies — how  foolish  it  was  for  any  girl,  and 
how  inexplicable  even,  to  allow  herself  to  lose 
her  health  and  good  looks  and  all  the  other 
sweets  of  life  simply  because  of  a  man.  The 
girl  with  the  blond  head  had  been  disappointed 
in  love  a  year  ago.  She  never  had  been  seen 
out  of  the  house  after  her  lover  married,  and 
was  said  to  be  in  a  decline.  Catherine  felt  a 
sort  of  joyous  scorn  for  this  girl  as  she  swung 
along.  She  realized  herself  upon  a  height  of 
emotional  superiority.  She  contemplated  the 
possibility  of  John  Greason  marrying  another 
girl,  and  gave  her  head  a  proud  toss.  She  could 
endure  even  that.  She  jcnew  herself  to  be 
strong  enough  for  anything.  She  thought  of 
a  new  red  silk  gown  which  she  was  to  wear  that 
afternoon.  She  could  see  herself  in  it,  and  the 
men,  if  men  there  were,  were  crowding  around 
her,  and  women  too,  for  that  matter.  Women 
liked  Catherine.  She  had  an  easy  good  nature, 
206 


THE   SECRET 

which  kept  them  from  jealousy  of  her  beauty. 
She  thought  that  John  Greason's  mother  and 
his  sister  Lottie  and  his  married  sister,  Mrs. 
Edgar  Ames,  would  be  there,  and  how  they 
would  admire  her.  She  was  quite  sure  that 
John  would  have  kept  his  own  counsel,  that  he 
would  not  even  have  told  his  family  of  his 
broken  engagement:  that  he  would  leave  them 
to  find  it  out  for  themselves.  She  was  sure  that 
her  mother  and  aunt  would  have  said  nothing. 
She  knew  that  they  could  not  do  so  without  a 
covert  reflection  upon  herself,  since,  after  all, 
she  had  not  told  where  she  had  been,  and  al 
though  they  did  not  doubt  her,  others  might 
do  so.  Even  popularity  does  not  shield  from 
the  delight  of /a  scandal,  and  Exbridge  was  a 
dull  little  viHage.  She  knew,  although  people 
liked  her,  they  could  no  more  resist  talking 
about  her,  if  they  had  the  chance,  than  they 
could  resist  gazing  at  a  sky-rocket  on  a  July 
night.  Pyrotechnics  of  any  kind  were  simply 
irresistible  to  human  beings  deprived  of  the 
natural  food  of  excitement.  She  knew  that 
although  her  aunt  was  not  shrewd,  her  mother 
was,  and  she  knew  that  her  mother  would  not 
tell,  and  would  see  to  it  that  her  aunt  did  not. 
Catherine  had  a  pleasant  time  decorating 
her  friend's  house  for  the  tea.  She  enjoyed 
that  sort  of  thing,  and  had  really  a  genius  for 
207 


THE   FAIR    LAVINIA   AND    OTHERS 

it.  She  made  the  rooms  charming,  and  headed 
efficaciously  her  corps  of  workers.  That  after 
noon  she  achieved  a  social  success  in  her  red 
silk.  Men  came,  and  she  was  surrounded  by 
them.  She  glowed  with  merriment  and  health 
ful  enjoyment.  John  Greason's  relatives  were 
there,  and  extremely  friendly.  She  knew  that 
John  had  told  nothing.  In  the  midst  of  her 
pride  and  indignation  she  felt  a  thrill  of  appro 
bation  for  his  reticence.  It  was  exactly  what 
she  herself  would  have  done,  what  she  did  do. 
She  told  nobody  anything;  her  mother  and 
aunt  told  nobody;  John  continued  to  tell  no 
body.  Of  course  his  relatives  first,  then  the 
whole  village,  finally  discovered  that  he  no 
longer  went  to  see  her,  that  the  engagement 
was  presumably  broken;  but  beyond  that  they 
knew  nothing.  They  surmised  to  the  extent 
of  their  imaginations,  but  their  imaginations 
failed  them;  they  were  always  wide  of  the 
truth.  Catherine  came  to  get  a  certain  amuse 
ment  from  the  various  reports  which  reached 
her  from  time  to  time,  but  apparently  John 
Greason  did  not.  He  grew  thin  and  old-look 
ing.  At  last  it  was  reported  that  Catherine 
Gould  had  treated  him  badly,  that  she  had  jilted 
him  for  a  rich  man  in  the  city.  When  Cath 
erine  heard  that,  at  a  church  supper,  she  turned 
upon  her  informer — a  married  friend  of  hers. 
208 


THE    SECRET 

"There  is  not  a  word  of  truth  in  that,  and 
you  can  tell  everybody  so,"  she  said,  her  cheeks 
blazing. 

"Then  you  didn't  jilt  him?" 

"No,  I  did  not." 

The  other  girl  stared  at  her  with  wondering 
eyes.  The  conclusion  was  almost  evident  that 
John  had  jilted  Catherine,  but  in  the  face  of 
Catherine's  radiant  joy  in  life  and  beauty  it 
seemed  ridiculous.  However,  gradually  that 
report  gained  ground.  John's  mother  came 
first  to  him  with  it.  They  were  eating  supper, 
on  a  Friday  night,  about  a  year  from  the  day 
when  he  and  Catherine  had  separated.  John, 
his  mother,  his  unmarried  sister,  and  his  mar 
ried  sister,  who  was  one  of  the  household,  her 
husband  being  away  on  business  most  of  the 
time,  were  at  the  table. 

"I  heard  something  this  afternoon  at  the 
'Improvement  Club,'"  John's  mother  remark 
ed,  as  she  poured  the  tea.  She  was  a  large, 
florid  woman,  and  she  looked  imposing  in  her 
gray  brocade  waist  trimmed  with  beaded  passe 
menterie  over  her  high-corseted  bust.  She  was 
the  president  of  the  "  Exbridge  Ladies'  Im-/ 
provement  Club." 

John's  sister  Lottie,    who   was   slender  and 
plain,  cast  a  sly,  scared  glance  at  him  with 
her    light,    prominent    blue    eyes.     The    mar- 
209 


THE    FAIR    LAVINIA  AND    OTHERS 

ried  sister,  who  was  like  her  mother,  echoed 
her. 

"Yes,  we  heard  a  piece  of  news,"  said  she. 
"Pass  the  biscuits,  Lottie,  please." 

John  ate  his  scalloped  oysters  and  made  no 
rejoinder.  The  women  looked  at  one  another 
doubtfully,  but  Mrs.  Greason  was  afraid  of 
nothing. 

"We  heard  why  you  stopped  going  to  see 
Catherine  Gould,"  said  she. 

John  took  another  mouthful  of  scalloped 
oysters.  The  mess  was  smoking  hot  and  burn 
ed  his  tongue  and  throat,  but  he  swallowed  it 
grimly  and  said  nothing. 

Then  Mrs.  Ames  spoke.  "Yes,  we  heard  you 
jilted  her  because  she  was  too  fond  of  hav 
ing  other  men  hanging  about  her,"  said  she, 
with  a  slight  repulsive  smack  of  her  full  lips, 
as  though  over  a  sweet  morsel. 

Then  John  looked  slowly  from  one  to  an 
other,  and  his  face  was  ashy  pale.  "It  is  a 
lie,"  said  he,  hoarsely. 

"Then  you  didn't  jilt  her  for  that?"  asked 
his  sister,  undaunted. 

"  I  didn't  jilt  her  at  all.  It  is  a  damned  lie!" 
said  John,  with  almost  a  shout. 

"Don't  use  such  language  as  that,  John," 
said  his  mother,  severely,  as  if  he  were  a  little 
boy. 

210 


THE   SECRET 

"We  have  just  come  from  the  club,  and  we 
have  been  discussing  the  alarming  growth  of 
profanity  among  men  who  call  themselves 
gentlemen,"  remarked  Mrs.  Ames,  with  a  su 
perior  air,  which  was  like  the  rasp  of  a  saw. 

"Then  don't  say  things  to  encourage  the 
growth,"  sneered  John. 

"Then  you  didn't?"  said  Mrs.  Greason.      , 

" Didn't  what,  for  Heaven's  sake?  I  won-  ] 
der  how  much  men  would  use  profane  words  / 
if  it  were  not  for  women!" 

"That  is  right;  heap  all  the  blame  upon  the""l 
women.     That  is  what  Annie  Drinkwater  said 
was  done,   in  the  club    this  afternoon,"   said 
Mrs.  Ames,   with  undisturbed  ponderosity. 

John  said  something  under  his  breath. 

"Jilt  Catherine  Gould,"  said  Mrs.  Greason, 
distinctly. 

"No,  I  did  not,  once  for  all,"  replied  John, 
fiercely. 

"But  she  did  not—" 

"There  was  no  jilting  any  way.  Can't  you 
women  ever  drop  a  subject?" 

"Well,  a  man  cannot  expect  to  go  with  a 
girl  as  long  as  you  went  with  Catherine  Gould, 
and  have  her  get  all  ready  to  be  married  ex 
cept  her  wedding-dress.  I  know  she  had  her 
underclothes  ready,  for  she  told  Lottie  so  over 
a  year  ago — " 


211 


THE   FAIR   LAVINIA   AND    OTHERS 

"  She  showed  them  to  me,"  interposed  Lottie, 
with  a  squeaky  little  voice. 

"Yes,  she  showed  them  to  her,"  said  Mrs. 
Greason,  triumphantly.  "What  I  was  going 
to  say  was,  you  can't  expect — " 

But  John  had  pushed  his  chair  back  violently 
and  left  the  table.  They  heard  his  heavy  rush 
up-stairs  and  the  slam  of  his  room  door. 

"He  is  just  like  his  father,"  remarked  Mrs. 
Greason,  with  an  odd  tone,  compounded  of 
respect  for  the  dead  and  a  remembrance  of  his 
faults,  which  was  simply  due  to  her  own  dignity. 

Mrs.  Ames  echoed  her  in  a  similar  voice. 
"  Yes,  father  was  close-mouthed  just  like  John," 
said  she. 

"We  never  knew  what  the  trouble  was  be 
tween  father  and  Mr.  Sears,"  Lottie  said,  in 
her  tiny  squeak,  which  was  not  in  the  least 
accusative,  like  the  other  voices.  Lottie  was 
simply  statistic,  but  for  some  reason  that  made 
her  more  irritating  to  people.  One  can  resent 
accusation,  but  one  is  utterly  helpless  before 
statistics,  and  especially  statistics  delivered  in 
a  squeak. 

"  I  should  have  found  out  if  Mrs.  Sears  had 
not  died  within  a  week  after  it  happened," 
said  Mrs.  Greason.  "Eliza  Sears  never  could 
keep  a  thing  to  herself,  but  Amos  Sears  was 
always  a  good  deal  like  your  father.  I  don't 

212 


THE   SECRET 

suppose  he  ever  let  on  to  any  human  being  be 
fore  he  died  what  the  trouble  was." 

"John  won't  either,"  said  Mrs.  Ames. 

"I'm  sorry  about  it,"  her  mother  remarked, 
although  as  she  spoke  she  took  another  spoon 
ful  of  scalloped  oysters.  "Catherine  Gould  is 
a  handsome  girl,  and  she  has  money,  and  she 
will  have  more.  All  that  consoles  me  is,  I  al 
ways  have  wondered  how  we  should  get  along 
with  her.  Unless  I  miss  my  guess,  she  has  got 
an  awful  temper." 

"Yes,  I  know  she  has,"  assented  Mrs.  Ames. 
"  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  that  was  the  trouble, 
if  they  quarrelled  over  something." 

"It  never  seemed  to  me  that  Catherine's 
aunt  Sarah  was  very  close-mouthed,"  observed 
Lottie. 

"Well,  Catherine  and  her  mother  are,  and 
they'll  see  to  it  that  she  is.  Poor  Sarah  Gould 
never  dares  speak  unless  those  two  women 
say  she  may,"  returned  Mrs.  Greason.  "Well, 
your  father  was  a  good,  upright  man,  although 
of  course  he  had  his  little  faults  like  all  of  us, 
and  I  can  see  them  right  over  in  your  brother; 
but,  after  all,  it  is  better  to  be  a  stone  jar  than 
a  sieve." 

"  Not  with  your  own  folks,"  said  Lottie. 

"You  can't  expect  a  stone  jar  to  turn  into 
a  sieve  even  for  your  own  folks,"  retorted  her 
213 


THE    FAIR    LAVINIA   AND   OTHERS 

mother.  "You  might  have  a  much  worse 
brother  than  John."  Mrs.  Greason  spoke  with 
some  asperity.  After  all,  John  was  her  favor 
ite.  They  were  much  alike.  He  had  inherited 
his  close  mouth  and  his  disposition  generally 
from  her  to  a  much  greater  extent  than  from 
his  father,  but  Mrs.  Greason  was  not  given  to 
self -analysis,  only  to  self-assertion,  and  she  did 
not  see  herself  repeated  in  her  son. 

Another  year  went  on.  People  talked  less 
about  and  speculated  less  about  the  breaking- 
off  of  the  engagement  between  John  Greason 
and  Catherine  Gould.  Nobody  had  made  any 
discoveries  concerning  it.  John  and  Catherine 
went  their  ways  as  usual.  Catherine  seemed 
to  grow  handsomer  and  more  brilliant  every 
year.  Everybody  wondered  why  she  did  not 
become  engaged  to  some  one  else.  As  for  John, 
he  was  said  never  to  look  at  a  girl.  This  fact 
probably  hurt  Catherine  a  little  in  spite  of  her 
popularity.  There  were  those  who  made  in 
sinuations  that  her  temper  had  been  the  cause 
of  the  trouble.  However,  men  did  not  seem  to 
fear  it.  When  a  lawyer  from  New  York  came 
to  Exbridge  on  business  concerning  the  set 
tling  of  an  old  estate,  and  remained  two  sum 
mer  months  at  the  village  inn,  and  paid  much 
attention  to  Catherine,  people  assumed  that 
surely  she  would  win  him,  or  consent  to  be  won. 
214 


THE   SECRET 

But  the  lawyer  went  away,  and  the  woman 
who  kept  the  village  post-office  said,  after  three 
months  had  elapsed,  that  not  one  letter  from 
New  York  had  arrived  for  Catherine,  and  thus 
that  matter  was  considered  settled.  Women  be 
gan  to  say  that  Catherine  would  live  and  die 
unmarried  in  spite  of  her  good  looks  and  pros 
perous  circumstances,  and  they  opined  that 
she  felt  slighted,  for  all  her  high  bearing,  and 
all  the  more  so  when  John  Greason  bought  the 
beautiful  hill  lot  on  the  west  side  of  the  brook 
which  divided  the  village  as  with  a  silver  rib 
bon,  and  began  building  a  house  which  to  sim 
ple  village  tastes  was  fairly  palatial.  The  story 
went  abroad  that  John  had  met  a  girl  in  the 
mountains  the  summer  before,  when  the  New 
York  lawyer  had  been  hanging  about  Cath 
erine,  and  that  he  was  shortly  to  be  married — 
in  fact,  immediately  after  the  house  was  fin 
ished.  It  was  a  mild  winter,  and  the  house 
had  been  covered  in  before  snow  fell,  and  work 
was  progressing  rapidly.  People  said  John 
would  be  married  in  April.  None  of  the  Grea- 
sons  said  anything  to  confirm  or  deny  this 
rumor.  In  fact,  they  themselves  were  as  much 
puzzled,  and  more  so,  than  people  outside. 
They  had  asked  John,  but  he,  as  usual,  was 
non-communicative.  They  had  imagined  every 
marriageable  girl  in  the  village  as  being  his 
is  215 


THE    FAIR   LAVINIA   AND    OTHERS 

prospective  wife,  but  as  he  never  went  out  even 
ings  they  themselves  were  forced  into  the  con 
clusion  that  he  might  have  met  somebody  in 
the  mountains.  "  I  do  hope  she  won't  be 
a  tiffiky  city  girl  who  has  been  used  to  ser 
vants  all  her  life  and  won't  know  a  blessed  thing 
about  keeping  that  beautiful  new  house  in 
order,"  said  Mrs.  Greason  to  her  daughters. 
They  were  all  secretly  worried,  although  they 
assumed  airs  of  calm  wisdom  when  abroad. 

Catherine  Gould  could  see  the  live  glow  of 
the  new  roof  from  her  own  room,  and  she  won 
dered  if,  unhappily,  she  concealed  it.  She  had 
a  new  coat  that  winter,  red  and  fur-lined,  and 
she  looked  more  beautiful  and  radiant  than 
ever. 

It  was  the  last  of  March,  one  evening,  when 
the  heretofore  mild  winter  had  suddenly  turned 
back  fiercely  upon  its  tracks,  and  the  cold  was 
bitter  in  a  white  moonlit  night,  when  John 
came  to  see  her.  The  ' '  Exbridge  Improvement 
Club"  had  met  at  the  Gould  house  that  after 
noon,  and  Catherine  had  the  best  parlor  deco 
rated  with  carnations,  and  the  lamps  were  still 
lighted.  A  hot-air  furnace  had  been  put  in 
that  winter,  so  all  the  rooms  were  warm. 
Catherine,  her  mother,  and  aunt  were  sitting 
in  the  parlor  talking  over  the  club  meeting, 
when  the  doorbell  rang.  The  two  elder  women 
216 


THE   SECRET 

scuttled  across  the  hall  to  the  sitting-room,  and 
closed  the  door,  all  except  a  crack,  and  Cath 
erine  answered  the  ring.  The  one  maid  was 
out.  There  stood  John  Greason,  as  pale  as 
death,  and  seemingly  enveloped  in  a  column 
of  wintry  air.  Catherine  stared  at  him  in 
credulously  for  a  second,  after  he  had  said  good- 
evening  in  a  hoarse  voice.  She  could  not  be 
lieve  her  eyes. 

"May  I  come  in?"  he  asked,  and  the  girl  re 
gained  command  of  herself. 

"Certainly,"  she  replied,  in  a  crisp  voice, 
and  stood  aside,  with  the  least  perceptible 
straightening  of  her  graceful  figure  and  toss 
backward  of  her  head.  But  poor  John  Grea 
son  did  not  even  look  at  her.  He  fairly  stum 
bled  over  the  threshold,  and  forgot  to  take 
off  his  hat  before  removing  clumsily  his  great 
coat.  Catherine,  who  was  somewhat  pale 
herself,  although  perfectly  self-possessed,  stood 
watching  him. 

When  his  coat  and  hat  were  in  their  old 
places  on  the  hat-tree  he  cast  an  appealing, 
doglike  glance  at  the  girl,  then  at  the  parlor 
door, 

"  Will  you  go  into  the  parlor?"  said  Catherine. 

As  John  followed  her  into  the  room,  both  he 
and  Catherine  heard  quite  distinctly  Mrs.  Gould 
say,  in  a  tone  of  unmixed  wonder,  "It's  John 
217 


THE    FAIR    LAVINIA   AND   OTHERS 

Greason,"  and  they  heard  her  sister-in-law  say, 
"Land!" 

John  turned  after  he  had  entered  and  closed 
the  parlor  door  softly. 

"Why  do  you  close  the  door?"  asked  Cath 
erine,  and  there  was  hostility  in  her  voice. 

"  I  wanted  to  say  something  to  you,"  replied 
John,  feebly. 

"  There  can  be  nothing  which  you  need  say 
to  me  which  necessitates  the  door  being  closed," 
replied  Catherine. 

Then  suddenly  something  boyish,  almost 
childlike,  in  the  man's  piteous  glance  filled  her 
with  compassion.  "Very  well,"  she  said,  and 
motioned  John  towards  a  seat.  She  seated 
herself  at  some  little  distance  from  him.  The 
lamplight  shone  full  on  his  face,  and  she  saw 
how  thin  he  had  grown,  what  deep  lines  had 
come  in  his  forehead,  and  how  pale  and  nervous 
he  looked.  "Aren't  you  well?"  she  asked,  ab 
ruptly. 

"Very  well,  thank  you."  Both  sat  still  for 
a  few  moments,  then  John  rose  and  made  a 
plunge  across  the  room,  stumbling  over  a  rug, 
and  almost  fell  into  a  chair  beside  Catherine. 
"Will  you  promise  not  to  speak  until  I  have 
said  something?"  he  asked,  in  a  voice  which 
Catherine  hardly  knew  for  his. 

"Yes.     Why?" 

218 


THE   SECRET 

John  commenced  speaking  rapidly,  as  if  he 
were  repeating  a  lesson  learned  by  rote.  "My 
new  house  is  all  done,"  said  he,  "and  I  have 
been  looking  at  furniture.  I  can  have  it  all 
ready  to  move  into  soon.  I  don't  want  you 
to  tell  me  where  you  went  that  night.  Don't 
speak.  Will  you  marry  me  and  live  in  my  new 
house  with  me?  Don't  tell  me  where  you  had 
been  that  night.  Don't  speak.  Will  you?" 

Catherine  stared  at  him.  "Are  you  out  of 
your  senses,  John  Greason?" 

"No;  don't  speak." 

Catherine  sat  mute,  gazing  at  him.  She  was 
as  pale  as  he  now. 

"Will  you  forgive  me  and  marry  me?"  asked 
John,  and  his  voice  was  almost  a  groan.  Great 
drops  stood  on  his  forehead. 

Catherine  had  a  quick  sense  of  humor.  "  How 
can  I  tell  you  if  I  don't  speak?"  said  she. 

"I  mean,  don't  tell  me  where  you  were  that 
night,  but  only  if  you  will  have  me,  after 
all." 

Catherine  continued  to  stare  at  him.  "John 
Greason,  how  do  you  think  I  can  marry  you 
if  I  don't  tell?"  said  she. 

"You  can.     Don't  tell." 

"But  I  must.  It  was  all  over  nothing.  I 
got  angry  because  you  were  so  domineering. 
I  had  only—" 

219 


THE   FAIR    LAVINIA   AND   OTHERS 

"Don't  speak,  don't  speak,"  cried  John  Grea- 
son,  in  a  kind  of  agony. 

1  'Well,  why  not?  What  is  the  matter  with 
you,  John  Greason?" 

"  If  you  speak,  I  can  never  have  any  opinion 
of  myself  afterwards.  After  treating  you  as  I 
did,  after  suspecting — I  can  never  be  a  man  in 
my  own  eyes  if  you  tell  me,  Catherine." 

"It  is  the  only  condition  under  which  I  can 
marry  you." 

"Then,"  said  John,  hopelessly,  "I  cannot 
marry  you,  Catherine.  I  shall  not  be  fit  to 
marry  you  afterwards." 

"Nonsense!" 

"It  is  true.  Oh,  Catherine,  don't  speak,  for 
my  sake!" 

Catherine  gazed  at  him.  She  was  not  a 
subtle  girl — she  could  not  understand— but  she 
had  strong  maternal  instincts,  and  she  saw,  as 
if  through  a  magnifying  lens  of  sympathy  and 
pity,  her  lover's  tragic  face,  with  the  pale,  thin 
cheeks  and  the  sweat-beaded  forehead;  and, 
moreover,  although  she  had  held  her  head  high, 
she  had  always  loved  him.  Suddenly,  with  a 
soft,  birdlike  movement,  she  rose,  pulled  his 
head  against  her  shoulder,  and  wiped  his  fore 
head.  "What  a  goose  you  are!"  she  whispered. 

"Then  you  will,  Catherine? — you  do  love 
me,  after  all?" 

220 


''WHAT    A    GOOSE    YOU    ARE!'    SHE    WHISPERED" 


THE   SECRET 

"Love  is  not  a  thing  one  flings  aside  like  a 
glove,"  said  Catherine.  "I  could  have  lived 
in  spite  of  it,  and  had  a  good  time,  too,  but  a 
girl  like  me,  when  she  loves,  means  it." 

44 Then  you  will  marry  me?" 

"  I  don't  know  whether  I  can  or  not,  unless — " 

"Oh,  Catherine,  don't  speak.  Don't  tell  me, 
for  God's  sake!" 

"Then  I  must  have  a  week  to  think  it  over," 
said  Catherine,  leaving  him  and  sitting  down 
again.  "I  can't  make  up  my  mind  all  in  a 
minute  to  marry  you  after  all  this  time  and 
not  tell  you.  I  am  not  sure  that  you  will  not 
always  suspect  me." 

"Catherine,  don't  you  see,  don't  you  know, 
that  if  you  do  tell,  you  must  always  suspect 
me  of  suspecting,  and  that  if  you  don't  tell, 
you  will  know  I  don't?" 

Catherine  sat  pondering.  "It  is  such  awful 
nonsense,"  she  said  at  length,  with  a  half-sigh. 

"It  is  awful  earnest  to  me.  Catherine,  I 
can't  marry  you  if  you  tell." 

"Do  you  really  mean  that  if  I  were  to  tell, 
and  you  knew  that  it  was  all  nothing  at  all, 
that  you  would  not  love  me  enough  to  marry 
me?" 

"  I  should  love  you,  but  I  would  not  let  you 
marry  a  man  who  suspected  you." 

Catherine  laughed   again.     "Well,   it  is   all 

221 


THE   FAIR    LAVINIA   AND    OTHERS 

too  much  for  me,"  she  said,  v**  You  split  hairs, 
where  I  only  look  at  things.  Well,  John,  I 
think  enough  of  you,  but  you  must  wait  a 
week." 

"To-day  is  Friday.  Will  you  let  me  know 
a  week  from  to-night?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  I'll  go  now,"  said  John,  rising. 

Catherine  wished  him  to  remain  longer,  but 
she  would  not  say  so.  She  went  with  him  to 
the  door  and  assisted  him  to  put  on  his  coat. 
He  fumbled  pitifully  with  the  sleeves.  The 
sitting-room  door  was  still  ajar.  When  the 
two  stood  in  the  outer  door,  John  bent  towards 
Catherine.  Then  he  drew  back. 

"No,"  he  said,  "I  had  better  not  until  I 
know.  It  isn't  fair,  and  I  have  been  unfair 
enough  as  it  is.  Good-night,  Catherine." 

"Good-night,  John,"  said  Catherine.  She 
closed  the  door  behind  him  and  went  into  the 
parlor.  She  sat  down,  her  face  a  mask  of  re 
flection.  Presently  her  mother  and  aunt  en 
tered  the  room,  almost  timidly. 

"Well?"  said  her  mother,  after  she  had 
hemmed  twice. 

"It  was  John,"  said  Catherine. 

Her  mother  and  aunt  looked  at  each  other. 

"Well?"  said  her  mother  again. 

"Mother,   I  can't  say  a  word  about  it.     I 

222 


THE   SECRET 

can't  tell  you  anything  for  a  week,"  said  Cath 
erine.  "  I  don't  know  myself  what  I  am  going 
to  do." 

"Then  he — "  began  her  mother. 

"Mother,  I  can't  tell  you  or  Aunt  Sarah  a 
word  to-night,"  Catherine  said,  decisively. 

Then  she  went  out  of  the  room,  and  soon 
her  bedroom  lamp  flashed  as  she  went  up-stairs, 
and  she  called  out  good-night. 

"Well,  she's  close  enough,"  said  Mrs.  Gould. 

"  Her  father  was  awful  close,  too,"  said  Sarah. 

"He  was  the  best  husband  that  ever  lived, 
if  he  was  close,"  returned  Mrs.  Gould,  defiantly. 

"  I  ain't  saying  a  word  against  him,  Martha." 

"You'd  better  not.  Catherine  is  quite  right 
in  being  close  until  she  knows  herself.  You 
aren't  close  at  all,  Sarah  Gould,  and  she  doesn't 
want  anything  all  over  town  until  she  knows." 

"  I  never  said  a  single  word  about  their  quar 
relling,"  returned  Sarah,  with  an  injured  air. 

"You  didn't  dare  to.  You  dropped  your 
yarn  when  you  came  in  here,  and  it  runs  'way 
back  to  the  sitting-room,  twisted  round  all  the 
furniture.  You've  got  one  piece  of  work  get 
ting  it  unsnarled.  Wait.  I'll  help  you." 

That  night,  long  after  her  mother  and  aunt 
were  asleep,  Catherine  Gould,  muffled  up  in  her 
warm  flannel  dressing-gown,  sat  beside  her  win 
dow  gazing  out  at  the  wintry,  moonlit  night. 
223 


THE    FAIR   LAVINIA   AND    OTHERS 

She  was  debating  with  herself  whether  she  could 
or  could  not  live  without  the  usual  lot  of  women 
which  her  lover  had  offered  her  that  night.  She 
was  quite  sure  that,  if  she  did  not  marry  John 
Greason,  she  would  never  marry  at  all.  He 
had  been  so  long  in  her  dreams  as  her  husband 
that  she  could  not  violate  them.  Catherine 
was  an  inherently  constant  girl.  If  she  did 
not  marry  John  Greason,  she  would  always  love 
him,  unless,  indeed,  he  should  marry  another 
woman.  In  such  a  case  it  would  go  hard  with 
her,  but  she  would  wrench  all  love  for  him  from 
her  heart.  But  she  knew  that  John,  if  he  did 
not  marry  her,  would  never  marry  another 
woman.  He  was  as  constant  as  she.  She  had 
never,  although  he  had  deserted  her,  believed 
in  the  rumors  that  he  was  about  to  marry  some 
one  else.  But  she,  on  her  part,  was  unwilling 
to  marry  him  unless  all  shadow  of  secrecy  was 
removed  from  between  them.  She  told  her 
self  that  it  was  hard  upon  her.  First  he  had 
demanded  that  she  tell;  now  he  demanded  that 
she  should  not.  Both  demands  were  unreason 
able.  In  spite  of  her  love  for  him  and  pity  for 
him,  she  had  a  sense  of  wrath.  She  wondered 
if  she  could  not  live  her  life  without  marriage 
at  all;  if  she  had  not  better  let  it  all  slip  away 
from  her,  and  give  him  an  answer  in  the  nega 
tive  the  very  next  day.  She  said  to  herself 
224 


THE   SECRET 

that  there  was  no  need  whatever  of  prolonging 
the  agony.  She  had  asked  for  a  week,  but  a 
few  hours  were  in  reality  all  that  were  neces 
sary.  She  gazed  out  on  the  white  level  of  the 
square  front  yard,  lit  by  snowlight  and  moon 
light.  She  gazed  up  at  the  indeterminate  col 
ored  sky  through  which  the  moon  sailed  in  her 
golden  halo.  She  gazed  at  the  few  stars  which 
the  brilliance  of  the  moon  left  visible.  Sparkles 
as  of  precious  crystals  gleamed  out  here  and 
there  from  all  the  landscape.  Everything  was 
white  and  pure  and  glittering,  fuft~6f  symbol- 
ism"of  the  ineffable  holiness  and  passionless  of 
tnat  which  is  outside  the  heat  of  human  life. 
'  Srie  realized  dimly  that  if  she  were  to  say  "  No  " 
to  her  lover,  that  in  spite  of  her  radiant  beauty, 
which  was  of  a  kind  to  endure,  in  spite  of  her 
triumphant  philosophy  of  obtaining  whatever 
she  could  from  the  minor  joys  of  existence,  and 
not  allowing  her  body  or  soul  to  become  lean 
through  deprivation  of  the  larger  ones,  she 
would,  in  reality,  live  her  life  and  die  her  death, 
as  it  were,  in  that  cold  glitter  outside  her  win 
dow.  It  would  be  peaceful  and  beautiful  and 
good,  but  she  would  miss  the  best  and  sweetest 
of  food  for  her  heart.  There  was  nothing  of  the 
nun  about  her.  She  was  religious,  but  she  was 
not  ascetic.  It  would  have  been  different  if 
she  had  never  loved  any  man  at  all.  Then  she 
225 


THE   FAIR   LAVINIA   AND    OTHERS 

might  have  been  satisfied  and  quite  content,  but 
the  aspect  of  that  cold  and  virgin  radiance  out 
side  seemed  terrible  to  her  with  that  leaping 
flame  in  her  heart. 

The  next  day  she  gave  in.  She  wrote  to 
John  Greason  and  asked  him  to  come  that  even 
ing.  Her  mother  and  aunt  could  not  go  to 
bed  until  he  had  left ;  although  it  was  late,  they 
were  so  curious.  When  the  front  door  had 
closed  after  him,  Catherine  went  into  the  sit 
ting-room  and  looked  at  the  two  elder  women, 
her  eyes  full  of  dark  fire,  her  cheeks  like  roses, 
her  full  lips  breaking  into  smiles. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "I  am  going  to  be  mar 
ried  the  5th  of  April,  and  live  in  that  new 
house." 

Catherine's  mother  turned  pale,  her  aunt 
trembled  and  flushed.  Then  they  both  rose 
and  solemnly  kissed  her. 

"  Oh,  there  is  one  thing,"  said  Catherine,  with 
assumed  carelessness.  "You  must  neither  of 
you  ever  say  anything  about  the  trouble  which 
has  been  between  John  and  me.  It  is  all  over 
now." 

"But  where  were  you?"  asked  her  mother, 
in  a  whisper.  Her  aunt  looked  at  her  with 
eyes  which  seemed  able  to  pierce  secrecy  itself. 

"That  is  never  to  be  mentioned,"   replied 
Catherine,  with  dignity. 
226 


THE   SECRET 

"  You  don't  mean  you  haven't  told  him  yet  ?" 
gasped  her  mother. 

"  He  did  not  wish  me  to." 

" Won't  you  ever?" 

"  Not  if  he  feels  as  he  does  now — that  he  does 
not  want  me  to." 

"Land!"  said  Sarah  Gould. 

"  It  does  seem  to  me  as  if  she  might  tell  her 
own  mother,  if  she  wouldn't  tell  him,"  said 
Mrs.  Gould,  after  the  girl  had  gone  up-stairs. 

"She  is  close,  just  the  way  her  father  was," 
said  Sarah. 

"Her  father  was  the  best  man  that  ever  / 
lived,  and  she's  got  a  right  to  keep  her  own 
counsel  if  she  wants  to,"  said  Mrs.  Gould,  sharp 
ly.  "I  am  glad  she  hasn't  got  to  live  with  his 
folks,  and  that  new  house  is  the  handsomest 
one  in  town." 

"Yes,  it  is,"  said  Sarah,  "and  I  never  could 
see  how  she  would  get  along  with  his  folks." 

"She  could  get  along  with  anybody  as  far 
as  that  goes,"  retorted  Mrs.  Gould,  with  in^ 
consistency. 

"I  wasn't  saying  anything  against  her." 

"I  don't  see  why  you  should.  She  and  her 
father  before  her  have  been  the  salt  of  the 
earth." 

Catherine  and  John  were  married  on  the  fifth 
of  April,  and  went  to  live  in  the  new  house. 
227 


THE   FAIR    LAVINIA  AND  OTHERS 

People  speculated  as  to  what  the  quarrel  be 
tween  them  had  been  about,  and  how  they  hap 
pened  to  become  reconciled.  They  prophesied 
that  they  would  not  be  happy.  "  Both  of  them 
are  too  set  and  too  close  to  ever  get  along,"  said 
they.  But  they  became  as  a  model  of  mar 
ried  happiness.  They  were  radiant  in  love  for 
and  utterly  content  in  each  other.  And  John 
Greason,  living  with  his  wife  as  the  years  passed 
and  her  beauty  dimmed,  and  wontedness  dulled 
somewhat  the  first  color  of  existence  for  both 
of  them,  realized  that  the  little  secret  of  hers 
which  he  had  never  known,  that  one  bit  of  her 
own  individuality  which  was  outside  his  ken, 
caused  her  to  always  retain  for  his  lifelong 
charm  her  virgin  mystery;  and  her  lined  but 
sweet  forehead  between  her  silvering  folds  of 
hair  was  always  haloed  by  that  thought  be 
hind  it  which  he  had  never  known  and  never 
would  know. 


THE    GOLD 


THE    GOLD 


THE  colonies  had  but  recently  declared  war 
with  the  old  country ;  and  Abraham  Duke, 
being  an  able-bodied  man,  although  no  longer 
young,  was  going  to  fight  for  the  cause.  He 
was  fastening  on  his  old  sword,  which  his  father 
before  him  had  wielded  well,  and  his  wife  Cath 
erine  was  standing  watching  him,  with  an  an 
gry  cant  to  her  head.  "Wherefore  cannot  you 
tell  me  where  the  gold  is,  Abraham  Duke?"  said 
she. 

Abraham  Duke  regarded  his  wife  with  stern 
melancholy,  and  his  glance  of  fixedness  in  his 
own  purpose  was  more  impregnable  than  any 
fort. 

"I  can  tell  you  not,  Catherine,"  replied  he, 
"because  no  man  can  tell  any  woman  anything 
which  he  wants  not  the  whole  world  to  know, 
and  there  are  plenty  of  evil-disposed  folk  abroad 
in  these  troublous  times,  and  'tis  for  your  own 
sake,  since,  in  case  robbers  come,  you  can  tell 
16  231 


THE    FAIR   LAVINIA  AND   OTHERS 

them  without  perjury  that  you  know  not  where 
the  gold  is." 

"For  my  sake!"  returned  Catherine,  with  a 
high  sniff.  "You  tell  me  not  for  fear  I  shall 
spend  the  gold,  and  you  always  loved  gold 
better  than  your  wife.  You  fear  lest  I  should 
buy  a  new  gown  to  my  back,  or  a  new  cap-rib 
bon.  Never  fear,  Abraham  Duke,  for  I  have 
gone  poorly  clad  so  long  that,  faith,  a  new  cap- 
ribbon  even  would  frighten  me." 

"  I  have  given  you  all  that  I  could,  Cather 
ine,"  returned  Abraham,  gravely. 

"  But  now  that  you  have  all  this  wealth,  five 
thousand  pounds,  you  hide  it  away,  and  tell 
me  not  where  it  is — me,  your  wife,  who  has 
kept  your  house  for  scarce  anything  save  a 
poor  measure  of  daily  bread,  all  these  years. 
You  wrong  me,  Abraham  Duke." 

But  Abraham  Duke  only  kept  his  mouth 
shut  more  tightly.  He  was  perhaps  ten  years 
older  than  his  wife,  but  he  was  handsome,  with 
a  stern,  almost  a  sad,  majesty  of  carriage.  It 
was  only  some  few  weeks  before  that  the  money, 
a  legacy  from  his  father  in  England,  five  thou 
sand  pounds  in  gold,  had  come  on  the  English 
ship  The  Queen  Mary.  It  was  the  day  after 
wards  that  he  had  sent  his  wife  away  by  stage 
coach  fifty  miles  inland  on  a  visit  to  her  sister, 
Mistress  Abigail  Endicott.  He  had  charged 
232 


THE   GOLD 

her  while  on  her  visit  to  say  nothing  about  the 
five  thousand  pounds,  but  well  he  knew  that 
she  had  talked  of  nothing  but  the  gold,  and  had 
bragged  much,  and  now,  when  she  had  returned 
and  her  husband  was  about  to  join  the  army, 
the  gold  was  hidden,  and  she  was  to  know  noth 
ing  of  it  and  have  nothing  of  it  all  to  spend 
until  her  husband's  return.  He  regarded  her 
at  the  last  with  the  sort  of  restrained  tender 
ness  of  his  kind.  She  was  still  a  most  charming 
woman  to  look  upon,  fair-skinned  and  fair- 
haired,  and,  in  spite  of  her  complaints,  attired 
daintily,  although  she  had  spun  and  woven  the 
blue  petticoat  which  she  wore,  and  worked  her 
self  the  lace  kerchief  which  veiled  her  bosom, 
and  the  cap  which  crowned  her  fair  head. 
"When  I  come  home,  you  shall  have  what  you 
will  to  spend,"  said  he,  "but  not  now.  Now 
is  a  time  when  a  good  wife  needs  nothing  ex 
cept  the  wherewithal  to  live,  with  her  good- 
man  away,  and  war  in  the  land." 

"Abraham,  tell  me  where  you  have  hid  the 
gold?" 

"  I  will  not  tell  you,  Catherine,"  said  Abra 
ham  Duke,  and  now  he  was  all  equipped  to 
start.  "If,  perchance,  I  should  never  come 
back,  you  may  go  to  Parson  Rawson,  who  holds 
a  sealed  letter  for  you,  but  in  no  case  will  he  give 
it  to  you  unless  I  fall  and  he  has  ample  proof 
233 


THE   FAIR    LAVINIA   AND    OTHERS 

of  it.  He  has  promised  me  upon  his  honor, 
and  no  man  living  ever  knew  Parson  Ebenezer 
Rawson  to  forswear  his  word." 

"And  in  the  mean  time,  while  you  fight  I 
am  to  stay  alone  at  home  and  starve." 

"There  is  no  need  for  a  woman  of  industry 
to  starve  in  a  good  home,  with  a  bound  boy  to 
cut  wood  and  dig  the  garden  for  her,  and 
cows  and  sheep  and  chickens,"  said  Abra 
ham. 

"  But  should  the  enemy  come  and  take  them 
all,  as  they  may  do,  since  we  are  on  the  sea 
shore!"  cried  Catherine. 

"In  that  case  you  will  go  to  your  sister, 
Mistress  Endicott,  in  Rexham,"  replied  Abra 
ham.  He  was  advancing  towards  his  wife  for 
a  decorous  last  embrace,  should  she  be  disposed 
to  yield  it  in  her  rancor,  when  little  Harry 
Evarts,  the  son  of  Abraham's  friend  and  neigh 
bor,  the  goldsmith,  came  rushing  in,  and  he 
was  all  bloody,  and  his  pretty  face  was  deadly 
white,  and  his  fair  curls,  like  a  girl's,  seemed  to 
stand  up  and  wave  like  plumes  over  his  head, 
he  was  in  such  a  fright.  Then  Catherine  Duke 
forgot  the  gold,  for  she  had  no  child  of  her  own, 
and  she  loved  the  boy.  "Harry!  Harry!" 
she  shrieked,  running  to  him  and  holding  him 
to  her  breast.  "  What  is  it,  child  ?  Speak !  Are 
you  hurt?" 

234 


THE    GOLD 

"Father!  father!"  gasped  the  boy,  and  then 
he  hung  almost  lifeless  on  Catherine's  arm. 

"What  ails  your  father?  Speak!"  cried 
Catherine. 

"Father  is  killed,'7  replied  the  boy,  faintly. 

"Killed!  What,  your  father  killed!  Abra 
ham,  do  you  hear?  Joseph  Evarts  is  killed. 
Hear  what  this  child  says!  Run,  quick, 
Abraham!" 

But  when  Catherine  turned  to  look  at  her 
husband  there  was  no  one  there,  and  she  for 
the  moment  thought  nothing  of  it,  inferring 
that  at  the  child's  first  word  he  had  hastened 
to  see  what  had  happened  to  his  friend. 

But  Abraham  Duke  did  not  return,  and  it 
was  known  on  good  authority  that  he  had 
never  set  foot  in  Joseph  Evarts'  house  to  as 
certain  what  had  happened  to  him,  but  had 
made  his  way  straight  out  of  the  village  to  the 
army,  the  company  of  which  he  was  a  member 
being  assembled  in  Suffield,  about  ten  miles 
away. 

Catherine,  although  she  had  had  the  differ 
ence  with  her  husband  concerning  the  hiding 
of  the  gold,  felt  hurt  that  he  should  have 
slipped  away  in  such  wise  without  a  word  of 
farewell  while  she  was  in  such  anxiety  over  the 
bereft  child,  but  she  had  no  suspicions  then, 
or  afterwards,  and  nobody  spoke  of  suspicions 
235 


THE    FAIR   LAVINIA  AND   OTHERS 

to  her.  But  suspicions  there  were,  although 
they  slumbered  in  the  general  excitement  of 
the  war  and  the  ever-recurring  rumors  of  a 
ship  of  the  enemy  in  sight  and  about  to  land 
in  the  harbor  of  the  little  village  of  South  Suf- 
field.  It  was  said  that  Abraham  Duke  was  the 
last  one  seen  entering  and  leaving  the  house  of 
Joseph  Evarts  the  evening  before  his  dead  body 
was  found  by  his  little  son,  who  was  returning 
from  a  visit  to  his  grandmother;  his  mother 
was  dead.  Little  Harry  Evarts  had,  indeed, 
found  the  door  of  his  home  blocked  by  some 
thing,  and  pushed  with  all  his  childish  strength, 
and  found,  when  the  door  yielded  a  gap,  that 
it  was  the  body  of  his  father,  dead  of  a  sword- 
thrust  in  the  side,  which  blocked  the  door. 
Evarts  had  been  a  goldsmith  by  trade  in  the 
old  country ;  since  he  had  been  in  the  new,  find 
ing  little  opportunity  for  the  exercise  of  his 
craft,  he  had  supported  himself  and  his  little 
son  by  working  his  farm.  It  was  held  that 
Abraham  Duke  had  gone  the  night  before  to 
bid  him  farewell.  Mistress  Prudence  Dexter, 
who  lived  next  door,  had  distinctly  seen  him 
enter  and  leave,  and  she  had  seen  no  one  else 
that  evening,  and  it  was  bright  moonlight  and 
she  had  been  sitting  beside  her  window  with 
no  light,  to  save  candles.  Still,  in  spite  of  the 
sinister  report,  Abraham  Duke's  standing — he 
236 


THE   GOLD 

was  tithing  -  man  in  the  meeting  -  house,  and 
esteemed  by  all — and  the  utter  absence  of  any 
known  motive  served  to  keep  the  suspicion 
well  within  bounds,  and  would  have  done  so 
even  had  not  everybody's  mind  been  distracted 
by  the  war  and  the  rumors  of  strange  sails  on 
the  horizon. 

Meantime  Catherine  Duke  lived  on  alone, 
save  for  the  bound  boy,  who  was  none  too 
bright  as  to  his  wits,  although  strong  and  a 
good  worker,  and  night  and  day  she  searched 
for  the  gold,  which  she  was  confident  her  hus 
band  had  hidden  somewhere  about  the  house, 
if  he  had  not  buried  it  in  the  field.  Her  hus 
band  had  not  been  gone  twenty  -  four  hours 
before  all  the  usual  hiding-places  of  treasure 
were  overhauled,  such  as  old  teapots,  the  draw 
ers  of  dressers,  secret  drawers,  and  the  clock. 
She  searched  the  clock  particularly,  since  she 
heard  that  her  husband  had  been  seen  coming 
from  Joseph  Evarts'  with  some  of  the  works 
of  the  clock  that  night  before  he  went  away. 
Prudence  Dexter  had  averred  that  she  had  dis 
tinctly  seen  the  dangling  pendulum  of  a  clock 
from  under  Abraham's  cloak  as  he  went  down 
the  street.  Catherine,  knowing  that  the  dead 
man,  Joseph  Evarts,  had  been  a  cunning  work 
man  in  many  ways,  thought  that  he  might  have 
rigged  for  his  friend  a  secret  closet  in  the  clock, 
237 


THE    FAIR    LAVINIA   AND   OTHERS 

and  she  searched  it  well,  but  found  nothing. 
She  thought  that  it  might  have  been  possible 
for  her  husband  to  carry  the  main  body  of  the 
clock  under  his  cloak,  for  the  purpose  of  the 
secret  closet,  but,  although  she  sounded  every 
inch  and  poked  the  inmost  recesses  of  the  clock 
well  over,  no  gold  did  she  discover.  She  there 
fore  let  it  be,  ticking  with  the  solemn  majesty 
of  its  kind ;  it  was  an  eight-day  clock,  taller  than 
a  man,  standing  like  Time  itself  in  the  corner 
of  the  living-room,  and  casting  a  shadow  like 
the  shadow  of  a  man  across  the  floor  every  morn 
ing  when  the  sun  shone  into  the  room.  But 
she  searched,  after  she  had  searched  the  clock, 
every  inch  of  the  house.  She  even  had  the 
hearthstones  taken  up,  she  and  the  dull-witted 
bound  boy,  working  by  candlelight,  with  the 
curtains  drawn,  that  the  neighbors  might  sus 
pect  nothing,  and  she  replaced  them  in  a  mas 
terly  fashion;  for  Catherine  Duke  was  in  real 
ity  a  masterly  woman.  And  then  she  had  out 
many  of  the  chimney  bricks,  as  many  as  she 
dared,  and  she  even  had  up  some  of  the  floor 
ing,  but  she  found  nothing. 

Then  she  and  the  bound  boy  dug  up  the  cel 
lar  bottom,  and  then  the  bound  boy  ploughed 
every  inch  of  land  which  had  hitherto  remained 
uncultivated.  She  could  do  that  openly,  and 
people  began  to  say  that  Catherine  would  make 
238 


THE    GOLD 

more  of  the  farm  than  her  husband  nad  done. 
But  the  land  that  was  too  stony  for  the  plough 
she  was  more  secret  about,  she  and  the  boy 
digging  it  up  by  moonlight  and  replacing  the 
sods. 

Once  she  ventured  forth  with  a  lantern  in  her 
impatience,  but  the  light,  seen  flitting  along  the 
field  near  the  shore,  occasioned  a  rumor  in  the 
village  that  a  ship  of  the  British  had  landed 
and  a  drum  beat  to  arms.  Then  all  the  old  men 
and  boys  left  in  the  place  sallied  forth,  and 
Catherine  and  the  bound  boy,  whose  name, 
which  belied  his  character,  was  Solomon — last 
name  he  had  none  at  all  that  anybody  knew, 
for  he  was  a  foundling — had  hard  work  to  reach 
the  house  undiscovered,  although  she  blew  out 
the  lantern  and  scudded  for  her  life  with  her 
petticoats  lifted,  while  the  boy  sped  with  her, 
the  more  afraid  that  he  knew  not  what  he  feared. 

However,  all  Catherine's  searching  came  to 
nothing,  although  she  worked  hard — and  hard 
work  it  was,  with  what  she  had  to  do  on  the 
farm.  No  woman  in  South  Suffield  was  con 
sidered  a  better  housewife  than  she,  and  she 
had  to  live  up  to  her  reputation.  She  and  the 
boy  sheared  and  washed  sheep,  and  she  spun 
and  wove  the  wool.  She  tended  the  flax  and 
made  of  that  lengths  of  linen  cloth;  she  made 
her  soap  and  her  candles,  and  kept  her  house  as 
239 


THE    FAIR    LAVINIA  AND   OTHERS 

neat  as  wax,  and  all  the  while  the  search  for 
the  hidden  gold  was  in  her  mind.  Many  a  time 
in  the  dead  of  night  would  she,  lying  awake 
and  pondering  over  it,  and  striving  to  place 
her  own  mind  in  the  attitude  of  her  husband's 
when  he  had  hidden  the  treasure,  think  of  an 
other  place  where  she  had  not  looked,  and  be 
up,  with  her  candle  lit,  and  over  the  house,  in 
her  bed-gown,  to  find  nothing  at  all. 

Catherine  grew  old  with  the  loneliness  and 
the  ever-increasing  wrath  with  her  husband, 
who  had  so  mistreated  her  after  her  years  of 
self-denial  and  toil  for  his  sake.  The  sense  of 
injury  is  like  a  fermenting  canker  in  the  mind 
when  once  it  is  allowed  to  work  with  no  pro 
test.  Catherine's  pretty,  round  face  grew  long 
and  sour,  her  smooth  forehead  knitted.  Her 
blue  eyes  got  an  expression  of  sharp  peering 
which  never  left  them.  She  even  looked  at 
her  friends  as  if  she  suspected  that  the  hiding- 
place  of  the  gold  might  be  in  their  minds.  And 
yet  all  the  time  she  had  in  reality  no  desire  for 
the  gold  itself,  for  she  had  enough  and  to  spare. 
Had  she  found  the  gold  she  would  directly 
have  hid  it  again  and  spent  not  one  shilling 
until  her  husband's  return,  but  the  sense  of  in 
jury  ever  spurred  her  on  with  a  goading  which 
almost  produced  madness.  She  asked  herself 
over  and  over  why  she  should  not  know — why 
240 


THE    GOLD 

her  husband,  for  whom  she  had  saved  and  toiled, 
could  not  have  trusted  her  ?  Of  a  Sabbath-day, 
when  she  went  to  meeting,  she  regarded  the 
parson,  Ebenezer  Rawson,  with  a  covert  hatred, 
since  he  held  the  sealed  letter,  and  had  been 
trusted  to  a  greater  extent  than  she.  Some 
times,  although,  in  spite  of  her  wrath  and  sense 
of  ill  treatment,  which  warped  her  mind,  she 
still  loved  her  husband  and  prayed  for  his 
safety,  the  imagination  would  come  to  her  how, 
in  the  case  of  his  falling  before  the  enemy,  she 
should  go  to  the  parson  and  demand  the  sealed 
letter,  and  know  at  last  what  she  had  a  right 
to  know — the  hiding-place  of  the  gold. 

After  her  husband  had  been  away  some  six 
months  and  she  had  had  one  letter  from  him, 
with  not  a  word  about  the  gold,  she  dressed 
herself  in  her  best — in  her  red  cloak,  which  she 
had  had  as  a  bride  and  kept  carefully,  and  a 
hat  with  a  plume  which  would  have  become 
her  had  she  not  gotten  the  expression  on  her 
fair  face  of  the  seeker  after  dross,  which  dis 
figures  more  than  aught  in  the  world — and  she 
made  her  way  to  the  parson's  house.  He  was 
a  widower,  and  always  had  a  kindly  word  for 
a  pretty  woman,  although  esteemed,  as  her  hus 
band  had  said,  a  man  who  kept  his  own  coun 
sel.  Past  the  parson's  housekeeper,  an  ancient 
aunt  of  his,  declaring  that  she  had  need  of 
241 


THE   FAIR   LAVINIA  AND   OTHERS 

spiritual  consolation,  and  leaving  her  staring, 
suspicious  because  of  the  red  cloak  and  the 
plume,  she  marched  into  the  study,  lined  with 
books  which  damned  all  mankind  by  reason  of 
the  love  of  God,  according  to  the  tenets  of  the 
day,  and  she  found  the  parson  at  his  desk,  with 
his  forehead  knitted  over  the  tenthly  of  his 
next  Sabbath-day's  sermon.  And  then  calling 
to  her  aid  old  blandishments  of  hers,  she  beset 
the  parson  for  the  letter,  although  the  condi 
tions  of  its  delivery  were  not  fulfilled,  and  she 
gave  good  and  sufficient  reasons  why  she  should 
know  the  secret,  since  lately  the  rumors  of  the 
enemy  on  the  coast  had  increased,  and  she 
argued  that  she  should  know  the  hiding-place 
of  the  treasure,  that  she  might  bury  it  safely 
away  from  the  greed  of  the  redcoats. 

But  Parson  Ebenezer  Rawson,  who  was  a 
handsome  man  in  a  po\vdered  wig,  and  had 
something  of  the  diplomat  in  him,  only  laughed, 
and  spoke  to  her  with  a  pleasant  chiding,  the 
while  he  noted  that  she  was  no  longer,  in  spite  of 
her  red  cloak  and  her  feather,  as  goodly  to  see 
as  she  had  been,  and  had  an  apposite  verse 
of  Scripture  concerning  the  frailty  of  the 
flesh  and  the  evanescence  of  beauty  enter  his 
mind. 

"Mistress  Duke,"  said  Parson  Rawson,  "it 
truly  seemeth  to  me  that,  since  you  yourself 
242 


THE   GOLD 

cannot  find  the  gold,  no  safer  hiding-place  can 
be  discovered  from  the  enemy." 

Catherine  blushed  high  with  anger.  "But 
I  am  in  want  of  goods  for  household  use,"  said 
she.  In  response  to  that,  Parson  Rawson  sur 
veyed  her  rounded  form  and  the  sumptuous 
folds  of  her  red  cloak,  and  said  that  he  could 
not  betray  his  trust,  since  his  word,  once  given, 
was  like  a  lock  and  seal  upon  his  soul,  and  that 
did  she  want  for  the  necessaries  of  life  he  would 
advance  the  money  needful  to  her  upon  a  loan. 

At  last  Catherine  Duke  went  away,  still  un 
satisfied,  and  she  walked — for  thoroughly  femi 
nine  she  was — with  a  graceful  movement,  being 
conscious  of  the  carriage  of  her  head  and  the 
folds  of  her  red  cloak,  until  she  was  out  of  view 
of  the  parson's  windows,  and  then  she  broke 
into  an  angry  switch,  and  she  even  wept  like 
a  crossed  child,  as  she  went  along  where  there 
were  no  houses. 

Before  she  came  to  her  own  house,  some 
quarter  of  a  mile  distant,  she  had  to  pass 
the  house  where  Joseph  Evarts  had  lived  and 
wherein  he  had  come  to  his  death  by  foul  means. 
Catherine  Duke  was  not  a  nervous  woman,  nor 
timid,  but  as  stanch  and  stout-hearted  as  wom 
en  needed  to  be  in  those  times.  Still,  for  all 
that,  and  although  she  had  not  heard  of  the 
suspicions  which  were  directed  against  her  hus- 
243 


THE    FAIR    LAVINIA   AND   OTHERS 

band,  she  never  passed  this  house  without  an 
involuntary  quickening  of  her  steps,  especially 
when  it  was  nightfall,  as  now,  and  she  was 
alone.  The  house  had  remained  deserted  since 
poor  Joseph  Evarts's  dead  body  had  been  car 
ried  forth  from  it,  for  the  little  boy  had  been 
taken  to  live  with  his  grandmother  in  an 
adjoining  town.  Now,  in  this  gray,  weather- 
stained  house  seemed  to  abide  the  spirit  of 
mystery  and  murder,  and  to  glare  forth  from 
the  desolate  blanks  of  its  windows  upon  all 
passers-by.  Thus  Catherine  Duke,  stout-heart 
ed  as  she  was,  quickened  her  steps  that  even 
ing,  and  scudded  by  in  her  red  cloak,  with  her 
best  plume  waving  in  the  breeze;  but  as  she 
passed  she  gave  a  terrified  roll  of  her  blue  eyes 
at  the  house,  and  she  could  have  sworn  that 
she  saw  a  gleam  of  light  in  one  of  the  rooms  of 
the  second  story.  She  looked  instinctively  at 
the  opposite  side  of  the  road  for  a  light  which 
could  produce  a  reflection,  but  there  was  no 
house  there,  and  no  bonfire.  She  looked  again, 
and  it  seemed  certain  to  her  that  there  was  a 
candlelight  in  the  east  room  on  the  second 
floor.  Then  she  fairly  ran,  for  a  vague  horror 
was  upon  her,  and  it  seemed  to  her  that  she 
heard  footsteps  behind  her,  although,  when  she 
reached  her  own  door  and  turned  around,  with 
the  latch  in  her  hand  and  Solomon  gazing 
244 


THE   GOLD 

at  her  from  the  lighted  living-room,  there  was 
not  a  person  in  sight  on  the  road,  which  made 
a  sharp  turn  a  short  distance  from  the  Duke 
house.  That  turn  swerved  the  road  from  the 
sea,  and  gave  room  on  both  sides  for  houses. 
The  Evarts  house  was  on  the  sea-side  of  the 
road.  All  that  could  be  seen  from  the  front 
door  of  the  Duke  house  was  the  desolate,  moan 
ing  waste  of  waters,  which  had  lately  acquired 
a  terrible  significance  as  a  possible  highway  for 
the  enemy,  and  the  road,  with  no  dwelling  as 
far  as  the  turn.  Catherine  called  Solomon  to 
the  door.  "Look,"  said  she,  sharply,  "and  see 
if  you  can  spy  out  anybody  on  the  road." 

Solomon  came  and  stood  beside  her,  project 
ing  his  simple,  gaping  face,  with  its  prominent 
light-blue  eyes,  into  the  gathering  gloom,  and 
whimpered — for  he  had  some  vague  idea  that 
he  was  being  blamed,  and  he  held  his  mistress 
in  awe — that  he  saw  no  one.  "Go  as  far  as 
the  turn  in  the  road,"  said  Catherine,  imperi 
ously,  "and  see  if  you  see  anybody;  and,  if  you 
do,  come  back  quickly  and  let  us  lock  the  door." 

Solomon  started,  although  he  was  afraid — for 
he  was  more  afraid  of  his  mistress's  anger  than 
of  any  unknown  quantity — but  she  called  him 
back.  "If  you  see  no  one  on  the  road,"  said 
she,  "  keep  on  until  you  reach  the  Evarts  house, 
and  lock  and  see  if  you  spy  a  light  in  the  east 
245 


THE   FAIR   LAVINIA   AND    OTHERS 

chamber."  Solomon  sped  away,  although  his 
legs  trembled  under  him,  for  the  fear  in  his 
mistress's  heart  infected  his  own. 

Catherine  went  into  the  house  and  hung 
on  the  porridge-kettle,  and  very  soon  Solomon 
came  back,  saying  that  he  had  seen  no  one,  and 
there  was  no  light  in  the  east  chamber  of  the 
Evarts  house,  but  there  was  a  boat  moored  be 
hind  the  house,  on  the  sea-shore. 

"You  cannot  have  seen  rightly,"  said  Cath 
erine,  for  now  her  confidence  had  returned. 
"You  saw  the  old  wreck  that  has  lain  behind 
the  house  for  the  last  three  years." 

"Nay,  mistress,  'twas  a  boat,"  persisted  the 
boy;  but  when  Catherine  insisted  that  he  had 
seen  wrongly,  he  yielded  and  agreed  with  her, 
and  said  it  was  the  wreck,  for  he  had  no  mind 
of  his  own  when  the  pressure  of  another  was 
brought  to  bear  upon  it. 

But  the  poor  lad  was  right,  and  it  had  been 
well  for  poor  Catherine  Duke  had  she  heeded 
him  and  taken  the  candle-gleam  in  the  cham 
ber  of  the  deserted  house  and  the  boat  on  the 
sand  behind  it  as  a  warning,  instead  of  recov 
ering  her  bravery  of  outlook  and  going  about 
her  evening  tasks  as  usual.  After  supper  she 
set  Solomon  to  paring  apples  to  dry,  and  she 
herself  spun  at  her  flax- wheel.  They  found  her 
hard  by  it  the  next  day,  and  she  was  murdered 
246 


THE    GOLD 

even  as  Joseph  Evarts  had  been;  but  she  had 
not  come  to  her  death  so  easily,  for  she  had  been 
tortured  first,  and  there  were  the  marks  of  fire 
on  her  feet  and  hands.  As  for  the  bound  boy, 
he  had  leaped  out  of  the  window  as  the  men 
beat  down  the  door,  and  he  had  sped  away  on 
his  long  legs,  with  what  little  wit  he  had  ever 
owned  wellnigh  gone  forever.  When  he  was 
found  and  brought  back,  he  shook  like  one  with 
palsy,  and  he  went  through  his  life  so,  and  he 
could  only  speak  in  disjointed  stammers.  As 
for  answering  questions  to  any  purpose,  there 
was  no  hope  of  it  from  him,  although  the 
people  gathered  some  confirmation  of  what 
they  at  first  suspected,  that  Catherine  had 
been  first  tortured  to  make  her  reveal  the  hid 
ing-place  of  her  gold,  and  then,  when  she  did 
not  reveal  it,  as  she  could  not,  poor  soul,  she 
was  finished.  Then  the  whole  house  had  been 
ransacked  for  the  gold,  but  the  robbers  and 
murderers  found  it  no  more  than  Catherine  had 
done,  although  people  were  not  sure  of  it.  In 
deed,  it  was  said  by  many  that  the  men,  who 
were  supposed  to  have  come  ashore  in  the  boat 
which  had  been  moored  behind  the  Evarts 
house,  and  which  had  been  seen  by  a  man  pass 
ing  as  well  as  by  Solomon,  had  found  the  gold 
and  taken  it  away.  Catherine  had  talked  much, 
to  her  own  hurt,  about  the  treasure,  and  there 
17  247 


THE    FAIR   LAVINIA  AND    OTHERS 

were  stragglers  from  the  army,  as  well  as  the 
enemy,  to  fear.  Some  said  they  were  British 
soldiers  who  had  come  ashore  in  the  boat,  and 
some  said  they  were  men  from  the  Colonial 
army,  a  company  of  which  had  been  recently 
stationed  for  a  short  time  at  Suffield,  but  no 
one  ever  knew  certainly. 

When  Abraham  Duke  came  home,  with  only 
one  arm,  having  lost  the  other  by  a  British  shot, 
he  found  a  deserted  home  and  a  devastated 
farm,  for  there  had  been  a  raid  by  the  ene 
my  after  Catherine's  death.  They  had  left  the 
house  standing,  with  its  contents,  but  the  live 
stock  had  been  taken. 

Abraham  lived  on  alone,  and  worked  his  poor 
fields  painfully,  being  so  crippled  with  only  one 
sound  arm  and  hand,  and  he  barely  kept  soul 
and  body  together,  for,  if  the  gold  had  not  been 
stolen,  he  made  no  use  of  it.  Sometimes  the 
neighbors,  albeit  grudgingly  and  doubtfully,  be 
ing  still  uncertain  as  to  whether  he  was  hoard 
ing  his  treasure  or  not,  came  and  helped  the 
poor  man  with  his  scanty  harvesting.  How 
ever,  they  seemed  to  meet  with  but  little  grati 
tude,  for  Abraham  Duke,  always  taciturn  and 
cold  of  bearing,  had  become  more  so.  He  spoke 
to  no  man  unless  he  were  first  spoken  to,  and 
then  he  made  scant  reply.  And  although  he 
still  attended  all  the  services  on  the  Sabbath- 
248 


THE   GOLD 

day  in  the  meeting-house,  he  had  given  up  his 
office  of  tithing-man,  and  would  not  have  it; 
and  people  said  he  had  doctrinal  doubts,  be 
cause  of  his  afflictions,  which  were  not  to  his 
credit,  even  if  he  were  innocent  of  the  crime 
which  those  who  were  more  ready  to  think  evil 
laid  at  his  door. 

As  time  went  on,  people  looked  more  and 
more  askance  at  him,  for  his  face  grew  more 
and  more  bitter  and  forbidding,  even  terrify 
ing.  The  children  became  afraid  of  him,  and 
gradually  the  old  suspicion  became  more  as 
sured.  He  was  held  (although  no  one  had  any 
proof,  and,  there  being  no  known  motive  for 
the  crime,  there  was  no  talk  of  bringing  him  to 
justice)  as  a  man  accursed,  and  when  he  was 
helped  it  was  more  and  more  grudgingly  and 
with  serious  doubts  as  to  the  blessings  to  be 
received  for  the  deed. 

Joseph  Evarts's  son  had  grown  up,  and  he 
was  living  in  his  father's  old  house  with  his 
grandmother,  who  still  lived,  although  very  old, 
and  never  did  Abraham  Duke  pass  the  house 
that  he  was  not  conscious  of  the  young  man's 
eyes  upon  him.  Abraham  had  become  aware 
of  the  suspicion,  and  it  looked  more  keenly  from 
Harry  Evarts's  eyes  than  any  other's.  Abra 
ham  rarely  looked  the  young  man  in  the  face, 
for  it  had  become  to  him  the  face  of  an  aveng- 

249 


THE   FAIR   LAVINIA  AND   OTHERS 

ing  fate.  He  went  past  the  house  with  his 
head  bent,  but  always  he  knew  there  was  an 
eye  upon  him — if  not  the  young  man's,  his 
grandmother's,  for  she  too  suspected,  and  voiced 
her  suspicions  openly.  Her  old  face,  set  in  the 
narrow  window-frame,  was  as  malignant  as  a 
witch's  upon  Abraham  Duke  passing  by,  and 
he  felt  it,  although  he  did  not  look  up. 

Affairs  grew  worse  and  worse  with  him. 
Rheumatism  beset  him  one  winter,  and  he  was 
crippled  with  that,  as  well  as  his  maimed  arm 
and  his  age,  for  he  was  now  an  old  man.  He 
sat  all  day  by  his  fireless  hearth ;  for  it  was  often 
fireless,  since  he  could  not  cut  wood  nor  hire 
it  cut,  and  often  he  went  a  day  without  food, 
for  he  was  more  and  more  abhorred  for  the 
shadow  of  suspicion  of  an  evil  deed  which  had 
fallen  upon  him.  Old  Parson  Rawson  had  died 
years  before.  He  had  given  up  the  sealed  letter 
to  Abraham  when  he  returned  from  the  army, 
and  Abraham  had  taken  it  without  a  word,  and 
nobody  knew  what  had  become  of  it. 

Abraham  Duke  lived  on,  hanging  to  life  with 
a  feeble  clutch,  like  an  old  leaf  to  an  autumn 
bough,  and  he  was  near  eighty,  and  suffering  all 
that  one  could  suffer  and  live.  He  was  slowly 
freezing  and  starving  to  death,  and  the  occa 
sional  aid  from  his  kind  only  served  to  prolong 
his  misery.  At  last,  when  he  was  eighty,  there 
250 


THE   GOLD 

came  a  fierce  winter,  and  one  morning  Harry 
Evarts,  who  had  lately  married,  and  whose 
heart,  embittered  with  suspicion  and  the  de 
sire  for  vengeance,  was  somewhat  softened  by 
the  thankfulness  for  love,  thought  of  the  old 
man,  and,  walking  down  to  the  turn  of  the 
road,  and  seeing  no  smoke  from  the  chimney,  he 
returned  home  for  his  hand-sled,  and  drew  a 
good  store  of  fire- wood,  with  a  basket  of  provi 
sions,  to  the  Duke  house. 

It  was  a  bright,  freezing  morning,  a  day  glit 
tering  as  if  strung  with  diamonds,  and  the  wind 
from  the  north  was  like  a  flail  of  death.  Harry 
Evarts  shuddered  as  he  dragged  his  sled  up  to 
the  door  of  the  Duke  house,  and  he  hesitated 
a  second  for  dread  of  what  he  might  find  when 
he  entered.  Then  he  heard  a  sweet  voice  from 
behind  calling,  and  the  girl  he  had  married 
came  running  to  join  him,  her  fair  face  all  glow 
ing  with  the  cold. 

When  she  came  alongside,  Harry  pounded  on 
the  door,  and  a  horrible,  dull  echo,  as  of  the 
vacancy  of  death  itself,  came  in  their  ears. 
The  young  wife,  Elizabeth,  caught  hold  of  her 
husband's  arm,  and  she  was  almost  weeping. 
"Oh,  Harry!  oh,  Harry!"  she  whispered.  "The 
poor  old  man  must  be  dead." 

Harry  shut  his  mouth  hard  and  pounded 
again,  and  again  came  the  echo  like  a  voice 

251 


THE   FAIR    LAVINIA  AND    OTHERS 

of  desolate  mockery  from  the  outside  of  life. 
Then  Harry  shut  his  mouth  harder,  and  opened 
the  door,  which  was  unlocked,  as  if  the  old  man 
had  left  it  on  the  latch  for  death,  and  he  en 
tered,  Elizabeth  shrinking  behind  him. 

And  on  the  hearth  sat  old  Abraham  Duke, 
frozen  and  starved,  but  his  face  had  an  expres 
sion  of  such  exceeding  peace  and  humility  that 
even  the  girl  was  not  frightened,  but  she  began 
to  weep  bitterly.  "  Poor  old  man!  oh,  poor  old 
man!"  she  sobbed.  "And  he  does  not  look, 
dead,  as  he  did  alive." 

The  room  was  full  of  brilliant  sunlight,  but 
bitter  cold,  and  on  the  hearth  were  only  ashes, 
but  the  andirons  and  the  tops  of  the  fire-set 
caught  the  sunlight  and  glowed  warmly.  So 
also  did  the  ornaments  on  the  desk  and  the 
high-boy  and  the  clock,  and  the  pendulum  of 
the  clock,  which  still  ticked,  seemed  to  swing 
in  an  arc  of  gold.  Harry  was  deadly  white, 
standing  looking  at  the  old  man  on  the  hearth. 
Elizabeth  continued  to  sob;  then,  being  led  by 
her  sweet,  womanly  instincts,  she  went  nearer  to 
the  old  man,  and  placed  one  of  her  little  hands 
with  a  caressing  gesture  like  a  blessing  on  his 
sunken  forehead.  Then  she  started.  "  Har 
ry,"  she  said — "Harry,  there  is  a  letter  in  his 
hand." 

Harry  did  not  stir.  He  was  thinking  of  his 
252 


THE    GOLD 

father,  and  how  he  had  come  home  to  find  him 
lying  dead  across  the  door. 

"  Harry,"  said  the  girl  again,  "  there  is  a  let 
ter."  Then  she  reached  down  and  softly  took 
the  letter  from  the  dead  man's  hand,  which 
seemed  to  yield  it  up  willingly.  "Harry,  the 
letter  is  for  you!"  cried  Elizabeth,  in  an  awed 
whisper. 

Then  she  handed  the  letter  to  her  husband. 
"Open  it,"  said  she. 

"  I  can't,"  said  the  young  man,  hoarsely,  for 
he  was  fighting  a  fight  with  himself. 

"I  will  open  it!"  cried  the  girl,  who  was  full 
of  quick  impulses,  and  she  broke  the  seal.  There 
were  only  a  few  words  in  the  letter,  which  was, 
in  fact,  more  a  memorandum  than  a  letter,  and 
she  read  them  aloud:  "The  andirons,  the  fire- 
set,  the  handles  on  the  high-boy,  the  handles 
on  the  desk,  the  trimmings  of  the  clock,  the 
pendulum,  the  trimmings  on  the  best  bed,  the 
handles  on  the  dresser,  the  key  of  the  desk — 
Gold." 

"  My  father  did  the  work;  he  made  the  things 
of  gold  instead  of  brass,  and  he  knew!"  ex 
claimed  Harry. 

The  girl  was  ghastly  white.     She  continued 

to  look  with  a  wild  gaze  of  awful  understanding 

at  the  old  man  sitting  stark  and  dead  on  his 

fireless  hearth,  where  he  had  sat  so  long  with 

253 


THE   FAIR   LAVINIA   AND    OTHERS 

the  great  god  Mammon,  whom  he  had  not  dared 
command  to  his  own  needs  lest  he  destroy  him. 
She  reflected  how  he  had  sat  there  and  starved 
with  his  wealth  glittering  in  his  eyes,  and  she 
also  reflected,  considering  the  look  on  his  dead 
face,  that  perhaps  his  earthly  retribution  had 
won  him  heavenly  peace.  But  she  shuddered 
convulsively,  and  the  gold  light  reflected  from 
the  tops  of  the  andirons  seemed  to  wink  at  her 
like  eyes  of  infernal  understanding  and  mock 
ery.  She  looked  at  the  letter  again,  and  called 
out  its  contents  again  in  a  voice  shrill  with 
hysteria: "  The  andirons,  the  fire-set,  the  handles 
on  the  high-boy,  the  handles  on  the  desk,  the 
trimmings  of  the  clock,  the  pendulum,  the  trim 
mings  on  the  best  bed,  the  handles  on  the 
dresser,  the  key  of  the  desk — Gold." 


THE    UNDERLING 


THE   UNDERLING 


THERE  were  five  of  the  Lynde  family — 
three  brothers  and  two  sisters.  One  of 
the  sisters  was  a  widow,  one  a  spinster.  The 
sisters  kept  house  for  the  brothers,  who  were  all 
unmarried.  The  brothers  were  working  a  large 
farm  on  scientific  principles.  People  said  they 
were  getting  rich.  Their  style  of  living  gave 
evidence  of  prosperity. 

About  six  o'clock  one  night  the  three  broth 
ers,  with  two  hired  men,  came  across  the  stub 
ble  of  a  recently  mowed  field  towards  the  large 
white  house  where  supper  was  awaiting  them. 
The  eldest  brother,  James,  came  first,  walking 
with  a  free  majesty  of  carriage.  He  was  a 
handsome  man,  nearly  forty.  Behind  James 
Lynde  came  his  brother  Edgar,  the  youngest 
of  the  three.  He  was  also  handsome,  although 
with  a  boyish  sort  of  beauty.  He  was  thirty- 
257 


THE   FAIR    LAVINIA  AND  OTHERS 

five,  and  looked  scarcely  more  than  twenty. 
The  principal  expression  of  his  face  was  one 
of  unquestioning  happiness.  People  said  that 
Edgar  Lynde  had  the  happiest  disposition  of 
them  all.  He  was  a  great  favorite  with  every 
body,  and  the  hired  men  would  do  anything 
for  him.  Unquestioning  happiness  has  about 
it  a  certain  self -cent  redness.  The  hired  men 
said  that  Mr.  Edgar  would  not  worry  if  all  the 
hay  on  the  farm  was  out  and  a  shower  com 
ing  up.  Women  adored  him.  There  was  some 
thing  about  this  happy-faced  man,  so  happy 
that  he  felt  no  real  need  of  anything  more,  even 
of  them,  which  fascinated  and  allured.  The 
two  hired  men  came  after  Edgar,  walking  with 
the  loose,  almost  disjointed,  hip-hop  of  their 
kind. 

Behind  them,  last  of  all,  came  William  Lynde. 
He  was  slightly  younger  than  James,  but  he 
looked  much  older.  He  was  small,  rather  un 
fitted  for  manual  labor  by  his  physical  condi 
tion.  His  delicate  bones  and  muscles  had  be 
come  warped  into  unnatural  shapes  by  exercise, 
rather  than  strengthened.  He  was  bent,  and 
moved  with  unmistakable  weariness,  yet  with 
a  persistency  which  gave  the  impression  of  re 
serve  strength.  His  face,  originally  as  hand 
some  as  that  of  either  of  his  brothers,  was  worn, 
and  had  a  look  of  dogged  patience  and  humil- 

258 


THE   UNDERLING 

ity  which  usually  years  alone  bring.  He  sel 
dom  spoke.  He  was  unfailingly  industrious,  but 
was  popularly  supposed  to  accomplish  nothing, 
to  know  little,  and  to  be  "rather  lacking." 
The  hired  men  held  him  in  no  respect.  He 
never  raised  a  voice  of  authority.  He  crept 
after  the  others  several  paces  in  the  rear,  with 
his  rake  over  his  shoulder.  As  he  walked — • 
they  were  all  moving  towards  the  west — he 
gazed  at  the  sunset  sky.  It  was  a  sea  of  glory: 
a  daffodil  radiance,  with  clouds  like  wings  of 
gold  and  silver  and  pearl.  The  man's  face, 
gazing  at  it,  changed.  He  looked  like  one  for 
whom  a  trumpet  of  action  had  just  sounded. 
The  other  men  did  not  notice  the  sunset  at  all. 
u^?tinally  they  reached  the  great  white  house — • 
a  fine  structure,  with  a  noble  array  of  outbuild 
ings,  barns,  and  storehouses.  The  hired  men 
entered  the  kitchen  door;  the  brothers,  with 
the  exception  of  William,  entered  a  side  door, 
and  went  directly  to  their  rooms  to  wash  and 
change  their  linen  before  supper.  William  en 
tered  the  kitchen  door  with  the  hired  men.  In 
the  kitchen  was  a  masterful  maid  who  had  been 
long  with  the  family.  She  was  capable  with  a 
capability  almost  amounting  to  genius.  The 
two  hired  men  washed  their  hands  and  faces 
at  the  sink.  William  waited  his  turn,  and  the 
maid,  whose  name  was  Emma,  regarded  him 
259 


THE    FAIR    LAVINIA   AND   OTHERS 

with  scorn.  The  kitchen  table  was  set  for 
three.  William  always  ate  with  the  hired  men. 
Emma  gave  supper  to  the  three  men,  and  to  the 
two  brothers  and  the  sisters  in  the  dining-room; 
then  she  had  her  own  supper.  After  she  had 
seen  the  three  men  in  the  kitchen  eating,  the 
two  hired  men  with  loud  gulps  and  gurgles,  and 
William  silently,  with  his  face  bent  with  an  in 
describable  gentle  melancholy  over  his  plate, 
she  put  on  a  clean  white  apron,  entered  the 
dining-room,  and  took  up  her  station  at  the 
table  there  until  the  others  had  finished. 

Mrs.  Meserve,  by  virtue  of  her  former  mar 
ried  estate,  as  well  as  her  superior  age,  had  the 
head  of  the  dining-table,  which  was  of  solid  old 
mahogany.  The  dining-room  was  really  charm 
ing.  Beside  the  solid  old  mahogany  table  was 
a  marvellous  old  sideboard,  and  a  corner  cup 
board  filled  with  Canton  china.  The  windows 
had  diamond-shaped  panes.  Annie  Lynde,  the 
spinster  sister,  was  artistic,  and  she  had  had 
the  old  rectangular  panes  of  distorting  glass 
changed.  She  had  also  had  the  walls  papered 
with  dull  blue,  and  there  was  a  moulding  with 
more  of  the  blue  Cant  on- ware.  She  was  a  year 
older  than  William,  very  pretty,  with  a  delicate 
prettiness,  and  was  well  dressed.  Mrs.  Meserve 
was  stouter  and  older,  with  a  fair  hardness  of 
countenance,  and  she  was  well  dressed.  The 
260 


THE    UNDERLING 

brothers,  now  they  had  changed  their  working- 
clothes,  appeared  distinctly  gentlemen. 

The  two  meals  progressed,  the  one  in  the 
dining-room,  the  other  in  the  kitchen.  William, 
of  those  in  the  kitchen,  finished  his  supper  first. 
He  had  not  much  appetite,  and,  besides,  the 
alien  company  of  the  hired  men  irritated  him 
more  than  usual.  He  rose  abruptly  and  went 
out  of  the  kitchen  and  the  house,  and  back 
across  the  stubbly  field  until  he  reached  the 
nine-acre  lot — a  noble  field,  as  level  as  a  floor, 
enclosed  with  well-kept  stone  walls,  and  bor 
dered  on  two  sides  with  sweeping  elms.  He 
crossed  to  one  of  those  sides,  and  seated  him 
self  on  the  wall  on  a  large  flat  stone,  where  he 
had  often  sat  before.  Then  his  face  took  on 
an  almost  happy  expression.  He_  looked  at 
fe^Jr^^pwhicnprbssed  the  horizon  with  ma 
jestic  arcs  of  gittce;  he  looked  at  the  sky,  which 
had  not  yet  lost  all  its  sunset  glory,  but  was 
fading  slowly  with  wonderful  gradations  of  rose 
and  violet  and  primrose,  and  at  the  stubble  of 
the  field.  The  mutilated  stalks  of  grass  show 
ed  rainbow  lights,  and  the  air  was  sweet  and 
cool.  The  trees,  the  sky,  the  field,  the  blessed 
coolness,  and  the  descending  shade  of  the  night 
were  all  inexpressibly  dear  to  the  man.  He 
could  just  see,  across  the  field,  the  roof  of  a 
house.  When  he  looked  at  that,  his  face  be- 
261 


THE    FAIR    LAVINIA   AND    OTHERS 

came  at  once  yearning  and  benignant.  He 
could  hear  faintly  across  the  field  the  sound  of 
a  piano  and  a  singing  treble  voice.  It  was 
rather  thin,  but  sweet,  and  carried  far.  The 
song  had  a  pretty  air,  somewhat  plaintive;  the 
words  were  inaudible.  William  listened.  That 
was  really  what  he  had  come  to  this  place  for. 
He  came  there  nearly  every  warm  night,  when 
the  windows  were  open  and  he  could  hear  the 
singing. 

Miss  Rose  Willard  lived  in  the  house.  She 
was  the  music-teacher  of  the  village,  and  sang 
in  the  church  choir  every  Sunday.  She  usually 
practised  the  hour  after  supper.  As  he  listen 
ed,  William  seemed  to  see  her  seated  at  the 
piano  in  the  pretty  little  parlor,  where  he  had 
been  a  few  times  years  ago.  Rose  Willard  was 
not  so  very  young,  but  she  was  a  beauty.  He 
could  see  just  how  her  face  looked:  her  sweet 
eyes  bent  upon  the  lines  of  the  song,  the  sing 
ing  curve  of  her  parted  lips.  He  sighed;  and 
yet  not  altogether  sorrowfully.  Suddenly  the 
music  ceased;  it  usually  lasted  an  hour.  The 
man's  face  fell  disappointedly.  Then  he  saw 
a  flutter  of  something  ^vhite  across  the  field. 
It  was  now  nearly  dusk.  William  gazed  at 
the  pale,  moving  flutter  across  the  field,  close 
to  the  trees,  where  the  stubble  was  not  so  try 
ing  to  delicately  shod  feet.  Then,  before  he 
262 


THE    UNDERLING 

could  realize  it,  Rose  Willard  stood  before  him. 
Her  dainty  white  gown  was  gathered  up,  re 
vealing  the  lace  on  her  petticoat ;  a  lilac  ribbon 
was  tied  around  her  waist;  her  gown  was  slight 
ly  open  at  the  neck,  revealing  a  firm,  round 
throat.  Rose  was  rather  below  the  middle 
height;  she  was  small  and  firm,  with  charming 
curves.  Her  face  was  round,  with  large  blue 
eyes,  and  her  curling  yellow  hair  was  twisted 
into  a  little  crest  at  the  top  of  her  head. 
She  stood  looking  at  the  man  on  the  wall 
in  an  odd  fashion,  half  ashamed,  half  de 
fiant. 

"  Good-evening,  Mr.  Lynde,"  said  she,  finally. 

Then  William  collected  himself  and  rose. 
"Good-evening,  Miss  Willard,"  he  replied,  and 
all  his  miserable  timidity  and  humility  were 
upon  him  again. 

She  continued  to  look  at  him,  and  now  a 
scorn  and  anger  were  in  her  look,  as  well  as 
shamefacedness  and  defiance. 

"I  want  to  ask  you  something,"  she  said, 
abruptly. 

William  bowed. 

"  I  want  to  know  if  you  weren't  here  last 
evening." 

"Yes,  I  believe  I  was,"  replied  William. 

"And  the  evening  before  that?" 

"I  think  so." 

««  263 


THE   FAIR   LAVINIA   AND   OTHERS 

"Almost  every  evening  this  summer?"  con 
tinued  the  woman,  pitilessly. 

"I  don't  know  but  I  was." 

"Why?" 

William  did  not  answer. 

"Why?"  insisted  the  woman. 

Then  William  said  something  about  its  being 
a  cool  place  and  pleasant  to  sit  in. 

"  I  should  think  you  would  sit  on  the  piazza 
at  your  own  house  with  your  brothers  and 
sisters,"  said  Rose.  Her  voice  in  speaking  was 
almost  a  singing  voice,  loud  and  sweet,  but  en 
tirely  uncompromising. 

William  hung  his  head  before  her  straight 
blue  gaze  in  a  weary,  patient  fashion  which 
seemed  to  enrage  her. 

"Why  don't  you  hold  your  head  up?"  she 
burst  out.  "Why  do  you  do  so?  William 
Lynde,  I  am  all  out  of  patience  with  you." 

William  continued  to  stand  before  her  as  if 
before  a  righteous  judge. 

Rose  made  an  impatient  movement,  and 
seated  herself  on  the  wall.  "  I  am  doing  an 
outrageous  thing,  and  it  would  be  town  talk 
if  it  got  out,"  said  she,  "but  I  can't  help  it. 
I've  stood  this  just  as  long  as  I  can.  Sit  down 
here  beside  me,  William  Lynde;  I've  got  some 
thing  to  say  to  you."  William  moved  slowly  to 
a  stone  at  some  distance  from  Rose. 
264 


THE   UNDERLING 

"Now,"  said  Rose,  "I  am  going  to  ask  you 
some  questions,  and  I  want  you  to  answer  me. 
I've  heard  a  good  many  things  said,  and  now 
I  am  coming  straight  to  you  to  find  out  how 
much  is  true  and  how  much  isn't." 

William  waited,  his  head  turned  away  from 
her.  He  was  conscious  of  a  faint,  subtle  per 
fume  from  her  garments,  and  the  malodorous- 
ness  of  his  own  came  in  his  face  and  filled  him 
with  a  sort  of  despair.  What  was  he  to  sit 
beside  this  white-clad  song-bird? 

"Have  you  had  your  supper?"  asked  she. 

"Yes,"  replied  William. 

"Where?" 

William  hesitated. 

"Where?"  demanded  the  woman. 

"In  the  kitchen." 

"  In  the  kitchen  with  the  hired  men?" 

"Yes,"  admitted  William,  with  a  sort  of  gasp. 

"Why  didn't  you  eat  in  the  dining-room 
with  the  rest  of  the  family?  Why  do  you  eat 
in  the  kitchen  with  the  servants  ?  Why  don't 
you  dress  like  a  gentleman  as  your  brothers  do  ? 
You  must  have  your  rights  in  the  property  as 
well  as  they." 

"  I  can't  tell  you  why,"  William  said,  in  a 
muffled  voice. 

' '  Nonsense !     Yes,    you    can    tell    me,    too. 
Why  can't  you  tell  me?" 
265 


THE   FAIR    LAVINIA   AND   OTHERS 

William  remained  silent,  but  his  face  in  the 
dim  light  was  as  the  face  of  a  ghost,  and  he 
was  swallowing  convulsively  as  if  he  were  chok 
ing  back  sobs. 

"Before  I'd  be  an  underling  all  the  days  of 
my  life,  when  I  had  as  good  a  right  to  hold  up 
my  head  as  anybody,  I'd — "  Rose  stopped. 
She  had  no  expression  forcible  enough. 

The  two  sat  silently  on  the  wall;  then  Rose 
spoke  again.  "  I  am  going  to  do  a  dreadful 
thing,  I  suppose,"  said  she.  "I  am  mortified 
and  ashamed  of  myself  for  doing  it,  and  you 
needn't  think  I  am  not.  Afterwards,  when  I 
think  it  over,  I  shall  be  almost  crazy,  but  I  am 
going  to  do  it.  I  am  going  to  ask  you  if  you 
remember  a  night  when  you  walked  home  with 
me  from  church,  years  ago,  when  we  were  very 
young." 

William  nodded.  "Yes,"  he  replied,  in  a 
choking  voice.  "I  never  forgot." 

"It  was  just  before  your  father  died." 

William  nodded  again,  and  again  murmured 
yes. 

"Well,"  said  Rose,  "I  didn't  know  but  you 
had  forgotten.  I  am  going  to  say  right  out — 
although,  as  I  said  before,  when  I  think  of  it 
afterwards  I  shall  be  most  ready  to  kill  my 
self  for  it — that  I  never  forgot,  and—  She 
hesitated,  then  she  went  on  with  a  sort  of 
266 


THE    UNDERLING 

shamed  resolution.  "Of  course,  I  haven't 
married" — she  bridled  a  little  as  she  spoke — 
"but,  of  course,  I've  had  my  chances,  and 
now— 

William  trembled  perceptibly. 

"I  have  a  good  chance  now,"  said  Rose; 
"  perhaps  you  can  guess  who,  but — I  guess  I 
am  not  made  like  a  good  many  women.  When 
I  have  once —  She  paused  and  hesitated, 
then  she  continued,  firmly:  "When  I  admitted 
what  I  did  to  you,  that  time,"  she  said,  "I 
didn't  do  it  in  a  flirty  kind  of  way,  like  some 
young  girls.  I  was  never  that  kind,  and  I 
never  forgot,  and  I  have  always  felt  bound  to 
myself  because  of  it,  if  I  didn't  to  you.  Then 
there  was  another  thing.  I  have  been  scold 
ing  you  for  letting  yourself  be  so  put  upon,  but 
I  guess  I  am  one  of  the  kind  of  women  who  has 
a  liking  for  the  under  dog."  Her  defiant  voice 
trembled  and  broke.  She  began  to  weep  soft 
ly.  Her  dainty  shoulders,  turned  from  the 
man  beside  her,  were  heaving.  William  looked 
at  her,  and  his  face  was  convulsed  and  ghastly. 
Then  he  spoke  with  determination. 

"  I  have  always  wondered  if  I  owed  it  to  you 
to  tell  you  something,"  he  said,  "but  I  wasn't 
quite  sure.  Now  I  know,  and  I  am  going  to 
tell  you." 

"You  needn't  on  my  account,  if  you  have 
267 


THE    FAIR    LAVINIA    AND    OTHERS 

changed  your  mind,"  said  Rose,  in  a  bitter, 
sobbing  voice. 

"I  have  never  changed  my  mind."  In  spite 
of  himself,  William's  voice  was  full  of  the  ten- 
derest  inflections.  "  It  wasn't  that,  but  I  didn't 
know  how  much  you  had  understood  or  meant, 
you  were  so  pretty,  and  there  were  so  many — " 

"  Enough  was  said  for  any  girl  who  had  any 
self-respect  to  draw  one  conclusion,"  replied 
Rose,  with  spirit. 

"  Yes,  but  it  was  a  hard  thing  to  tell.  I  knew 
you  thought  I  liked  you,  but  you  went  on  just 
the  same,  pretty  and  laughing  as  ever,  and 
whether  you  meant — 

"  I  never  was  a  girl  to  wear  my  heart  on  my 
sleeve,  nor  say  and  do  things  of  that  kind  un 
less  I  did  mean  them." 

"I  didn't  know  quite  what  to  do.  I  see 
now  I  ought  to  have  told  you,  but  it  was 
hard." 

"What  was  hard?" 

"To  tell  you." 

"To  tell  me  what?" 

"To  tell  you  I  had  done  something  wrong, 
so  that  I  could  never  marry  anybody." 

"What  have  you  done  wrong,  for  Heaven's 

sake?     I   don't  believe  you   ever  hurt   a  fly, 

William  Lynde.     You   were  never  that  kind. 

You  always  took  the  heavy  end  of  things  and 

268 


THE   UNDERLING 

let  yourself  be  put  upon  more  or  less.     I  don't 
believe  a  word  of  it." 

"It  is  the  truth,"  said  William,  in  a  heavy 

voice. 

"You  don't  mean  that  you  ever  did  any 
thing  that  would  make  you  liable  to  arrest, 
or_anything  of  that  kind,  if  you  were  found 
out?" 

"Yes,"  replied  William. 

"I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it,"  said  Rose. 
William  remained  silent.  His  face  had  a  curi 
ous  doggedness— the  doggedness  of  a  martyr 
under  fire.  Rose  moved  a  little  nearer.  "Well, 
if  you  did,"  said  she,  "people  can  always  over 
look  anything  if  one  is  sorry  and  never  does 
so  again." 

"I  am  not  sorry,"  said  William,  "and  I 
should  do  so  again." 

Rose  stared  and  shrank  back.  "William 
Lynde,"  said  she,  "what  on  earth  do  you 
mean?" 

"I  have  committed  a  crime,"  said  William, 
in  a  voice  so  calm  that  it  sounded  hard.  "I 
was  tempted,  and  I  yielded,  and  I  should  do 
so  again." 

The  woman's  face  changed.  She  felt  a  lit 
tle  fear  of  him.  "Do  your  folks  know  about 
it?"  asked  she. 

"They  know  what  I  did,"  replied  William. 
269 


THE   FAIR   LAVINIA  AND  OTHERS 

He  spoke  evasively,  but  Rose  did  not  notice 
that. 

"And  they  have  kept  quiet  about  it?  I 
think  they  have  stood  by  you  pretty  well." 

"Yes,  they  have,"  assented  William,  wearily. 

"Well,  I  am  not  going  to  urge  you  to  tell 
what  you  did,  if  you  don't  want  to,"  said  Rose, 
and  her  voice  was  full  of  suspicious  inflections, 
and  the  singing  quality  had  disappeared. 
.   "I'll  tell  you  some  time,"  said  William. 

"When?" 

"I  can't  tell  you  while  I  am  living.  I'll 
leave  a  letter  for  you  to  read  after  I  am  dead." 

"What  nonsense!"  said  Rose,  harshly.  "Ten 
chances  to  one  you'll  outlive  me." 

"  No,  I  guess  I  sha'n't.  I  am  not  as  well  as 
I  used  to  be." 

"Not  anything  serious?"  said  Rose,  and 
again  the  tenderness  was  in  her  voice. 

"No,  I  guess  not,"  replied  William,  patient 
ly,  "but  I'll  write  a  letter,  anyway." 

Rose's  whole  body  inclined  towards  him  as 
they  sat  there.  "I  am  willing  to  overlook  it, 
not  knowing,"  said  she,  in  a  low  voice. 

"No,  Rose,  I  can't,"  said  the  man.  "It's 
no  use;  I  can't." 

Rose  sprang  to  her  feet.  "Well,  I  guess  I've 
humiliated  myself  enough  for  one  night!"  she 
cried.  "I  wouldn't  marry  you  now,  William 

270 


NO,    ROSE,    I    CANT.        ITS    NO    USE",    I    CANT 


THE   UNDERLING 

Lynde,  if  you  were  to  tell  me  you  hadn't  done 
anything  worse  than  to  steal  a  pin." 

William  was  silent. 

"I  expect  your  brother  to-night,"  she  said. 
"I  don't  know  whether  you  know  it  or  not, 
but  he  has  been  after  me  for  a  long  time." 

"Yes,  I  know  it,"  said  William,  in  a  choking 
voice. 

"  Well,  I  guess  I  may  as  well  tell  him  to-night 
that  I'll  marry  him." 

"I  hope  you  will  be  happy,"  said  William, 
and  she  could  scarcely  hear  him. 

"  I  guess  I  shall  be  as  happy  as  most  people," 
said  she.  "Your  brother  is  good-looking,  and 
has  a  good  disposition,  and  he  holds  up  his 
head  as  if  he  wasn't  ashamed  of  anything  he 
has  ever  done." 

"He  has  no  call  to  be,"  replied  William. 

Rose  went  slowly  home  across  the  field. 
The  stubble  pricked  her  feet,  and  she  set  them 
down  with  a  gingerly  impatience.  She  was 
angry  with  William,  she  pitied  him,  and  she 
felt  humiliated.  She  said  to  herself  that  it 
had  come  to  a  pretty  pass  when  she,  Rose  Wil- 
lard,  had  in  a  measure  thrown  herself  at  a 
man's  head  to  be  rejected.  Then  she  won 
dered  what  in  the  world  he  had  done,  and  evil 
surmises  swarmed  in  her  innocent  mind  like  so 
many  unclean  flies.  She  was  a  good  woman, 
271 


THE   FAIR    LAVINIA   AND   OTHERS 

and  had  led  a  pure  life,  but  the  imagination  for 
evil  is  dormant  or  rampant  in  all  things  human. 
She  really  stained  herself  imagining  what  Will 
iam  might  have  done,  as  she  crossed  the  field,  her 
dainty  white  go  wn  gatheredup,  the  lace  of  her  pet 
ticoat  ruffling  around  her  carefully  stepping  feet. 
When  she  reached  home  she  found  her  wid 
owed  aunt,  Eliza  Ames,  and  her  sister,  Gloria. 
Gloria  was  a  libellous  name  for  Rose's  elder 
sister,  but  there  had  always  been  a  Gloria  in 
the  Willard  family,  and  the  name  had  fallen  to 
her  lot,  with  none  of  the  meaning  implied  by  it. 
Gloria  was  older  than  Rose,  and  a  fac-simile 
of  her  in  everything  except  tints.  Nothing 
more  sallow  and,  where  it  was  not  sallow,  col 
orless  could  be  imagined  than  her  face.  She 
seemed  homelier  than  if  she  had  not  had  Rose 
for  a  sister.  She  had  contrast  to  encounter  as 
well  as  her  own  defects.  But  Gloria  did  not 
repine,  at  least  openly.  She  had  an  even  tem 
perament,  which  was  a  blessing  to  her.  Mar 
riage  had  been  dismissed  finally  from  her 
thoughts  when  she  was  eighteen  and  a  young 
man  had  walked  home  from  evening  meeting 
with  her,  and  the  next  week  with  another  girl, 
whom  he  had  married  in  three  months.  Pri 
vately  Gloria  regarded  that  as  the  chance  which 
every  woman  is  said  to  have,  and  it  was  a  taste 
of  sweet  which  comforted  her. 
272 


THE   UNDERLING 

When  Gloria  looked  up  at  Rose,  lovely  as  a 
flower,  in  the  choir,  she  had  a  curious  pride  of 
proprietorship  in  her.  It  really  seemed  to  her 
that  in  some  way  Rose  was  dependent  upon 
her  for  her  beauty  and  her  sweet  singing  voice, 
that  to  her  were  due  the  thanks  for  both.  It 
was  also  borne  in  upon  Gloria's  mind  that 
Rose  owed  all  the  comforts  of  life  to  her.  She 
took  pleasure  in  thinking  her  sister  unpractical. 
Rose  made  all  her  own  pretty  gowns,  but  Gloria 
never  fairly  realized  that  she  herself  did  not 
make  them;  she  looked  at  a  hat  which  Rose 
had  trimmed,  and  it  seemed  to  her  that  she 
was  the  one  who  had  fastened  on  the  knots  of 
ribbon  and  the  flowers.  She  even  had  an  odd 
sense  of  singing  instead  of  Rose,  and,  withal,  she 
was  entirely  sincere.  Rose  was  good-nature  it 
self  as  regarded  her  sister.  She  was  as  sweet, 
in  fact,  with  loyalty  as  a  rose  is  with  its  essential 
perfume. 

To-night,  as  Rose  entered,  Gloria  was  seated 
in  the  lighted  parlor,  engaged  on  some  fancy- 
work.  She  looked  at  her  beautiful  sister,  and 
it  was  as  good  to  her-  as  if  she  saw  herself,  and 
yet  not  because  of  unselfishness.  Rose  seated 
herself  at  the  piano,  and  began  to  sing  a  foolish, 
sentimental  song,  but  in  a  moment  her  voice 
broke.  She  leaned  her  head  over  against  the 
music-rack. 

273 


THE   FAIR    LAVINIA    AND   OTHERS 

"  What  on  earth  is  the  matter?"  asked  Gloria. 

"Too  many  fools  in  the  world,"  replied  Rose, 
in  a  voice  which  did  not  seem  like  her  own,  so 
gibing  and  bitter  was  it. 

"I  don't  see  what  there  is  to  cry  about  in 
that,"  said  Gloria. 

Rose  laughed  a  little,  and  began  to  sing  again. 
Her  voice  was  triumphantly  sweet  and  clear. 

"I  guess  there  isn't  much  the  matter,"  said 
Gloria.  Then  the  door-bell  rang,  pealing  out 
in  the  midst  of  Rose's  song. 

"I  guess  you'll  be  all  right  now,"  whispered 
Gloria.  She  admired  Edgar  Lynde,  and  felt  as 
proud  as  if  he  had  been  her  own  lover.  Then 
she  gathered  up  her  work  and  went  out  of  the 
room. 

When  Edgar  Lynde  came  in  and  had  seated 
himself,  he  begged  Rose  to  go  on  with  her 
song. 

"It  is  a  silly  thing,"  said  Rose.  "I  don't 
believe  you  will  like  it." 

"  It  sounded  very  pretty  as  I  was  coming  up 
the  walk,"  said  Edgar.  "  What  is  it  ?" 

"Just  a  little  thing  I  came  across  the  other 
day  in  Crosby's." 

"You  didn't  tell  me  the  name." 

"The  name  is  'Who    loves  once    loves  for 
aye,'"  said  Rose,  and  there  was  an  odd  tone 
of  defiance  in  her  voice. 
274 


THE   UNDERLING 

Edgar  laughed  his  unfailing  laugh  of  merri 
ment.  There  was  to  Rose  something  exasper 
ating  about  Edgar  Lynde's  laugh.  It  did  not 
seem  to  her  as  if  everything  in  life  was  provoca 
tive  of  mirth,  or  even  of  good-nature. 

"  Sounds  as  if  that  might  be  a  pretty  song," 
said  Edgar.  There  was  sentiment  in  his  voice, 
for  he  was,  in  his  light-hearted  way,  fond  of 
Rose;  still,  he  laughed. 

"  I  don't  see  what  you  are  laughing  at,"  said 
Rose. 

"Oh,  nothing,"  replied  Edgar.  "I  was  only 
thinking  how  many  widows  and  widowers,  and 
even  folks  who  have  had  stacks  of  love-affairs, 
would  feel  singing  that  song."  There  was 
nothing  whatever  satirical  in  his  voice,  which 
expressed  simply  good-humored  and  happy  ac 
quiescence  with  the  laws  of  life. 

Rose  set  her  full  lips  firmly.  "It  may  be 
truer  than  you  think,  all  the  same,"  said  she. 
"You  don't  know  what  is  at  the  bottom  of 
folk's  hearts." 

"Well,"  retorted  Edgar,  "if  anything  like 
that  is  at  the  bottom  of  a  heart,  that  man  or 
woman  had  better  stick  to  the  one  it's  meant 
for;  that's  all  I've  got  to  say." 

A  singular  expression  came  over  Rose's  face; 
her  full  lips  tightened  still  more.  "  That's  what 
I  say,"  said  she.  Then  she  began  to  sing.  Her 
275 


THE    FAIR    LAVINIA  AND   OTHERS 

voice  rang  out  with  unusual  feeling  and  sweet 
ness. 

The  music  was  light,  and  the  words  almost 
foolish  enough  to  be  incomprehensible,  but  she 
threw  meaning  into  the  song. 

''By  Jove!"  cried  Edgar,  after  Rose  had  fin 
ished,  "that  is  one  of  the  best  things  I  have 
heard  for  a  long  time." 

"I  am  glad  you  like  it,"  said  Rose,  moving 
away  from  the  piano. 

"It  is  a  pity  you  can't  sing  it  in  the  choir," 
said  Edgar,  with  his  laugh. 

"  I  fear  it  would  hardly  answer,"  replied  Rose. 
She  took  some  crochet  -  work  of  rose  -  colored 
wool  off  the  table  and  sat  down. 

"It  would  break  up  the  meeting,  I  guess," 
said  Edgar,  and  he  laughed  again.  He  pulled 
a  chair  close  to  her  with  easy  grace.  Then  he 
caught  at  her  work. 

"Edgar  Lynde,  you  will  snarl  my  wool  so 
I  can  never  get  it  straight,"  said  Rose,  still 
impatiently. 

"Oh,  hang  the  wool!"  said  Edgar.  Then  he 
pulled  the  work  out  of  her  lap  and  gave  it  a 
toss  onto  the  floor.  Rose  sat  still,  with  an 
odd  expression  as  of  some  one  who  expects 
something  long  looked  for  and  is  passive  before 
the  fatality  of  its  advance. 

"I  don't  want  you  to  work  to-night;  I  want 
276 


THE   UNDERLING 

you  to  attend  to  Edgar,"  said  the  man,  and 
there  was  a  childlike  tone  of  tenderness  in  his 
voice. 

Rose  remained  sitting,  quietly  waiting. 

Edgar  leaned  over  her.  He  took  one  of  her 
hands,  which  she  immediately  pulled  away, 
although  so  gently  that  the  motion  did  not 
savor  of  repulse. 

"You  are  going  to  marry  me,  dear,  aren't 
you?"  said  Edgar. 

Rose  remained  silent.  She  stared  straight 
ahead.  Her  face  was  pale  except  for  red  spots 
on  the  cheeks;  tears  stood  in  her  fixed  eyes. 

"Why  don't  you  answer,  dear?" 

"I  suppose  so." 

Edgar  gave  a  little  triumphant  laugh  and 
flung  an  arm  around  Rose's  waist.  "You  sup 
pose  so;  I  like  that,"  he  repeated.  "That  is 
all  a  man  gets  after  he  has  been  hanging  around 
a  girl  as  long  as  I  have." 

"  That  ought  to  be  enough,"  said  Rose,  sober 
ly.  "  Of  course,  I  have  understood,  or  thought 
I  did,  what  your  attentions  meant.  There  is 
no  use  in  pretending  I  didn't.  We  are  not 
children." 

"Well,  I  have  had  my  eye  on  you  ever  since 

you  were  that  high,"  said  Edgar,  indicating  a 

three  -  feet    height   from  the  floor.     "I  know, 

dear,  you  would  have  been  blind  if  you  had 

277 


THE   FAIR   LAVINIA  AND   OTHERS 

not  supposed  so.  But — >"  Edgar  hesitated  a 
second,  Then  he  went  on:  "I  will  confess, 
though,  I  thought  at  one  time  that  William 
had  the  best  chance.  That  kept  me  back." 

Rose  turned  on  him  abruptly.  "What  is  it 
about  William?"  she  asked. 

"You  won't  see  much  of  William,  anyway, 
dear,"  replied  Edgar. 

"Why?"  said  Rose,  and  her  tone  was  im 
perative. 

Edgar  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "William  is 
not  much  with  the  rest  of  the  family,"  he  said. 

"Why?" 

Edgar's  smiling  lips  became  firm.  He  looked 
down  almost  frowningly  at  her.  "Rose,"  he 
said,  "  I  love  you,  and  I  am  going  to  do  every 
thing  I  can  to  make  you  happy,  but  there  is 
one  thing  I  cannot  do,  and  none  of  the  rest 
of  us  can  do,  and  you  must  never  ask  it  nor 
expect  it." 

"What  is  that?" 

"You  must  not  ask  why  William  lives  as 
he  does,  or  why  he  is  not,  strictly  speaking,  one 
of  the  family." 

"He  eats  with  the  hired  men,  doesn't  he?" 
asked  Rose. 

"Yes,  dear." 

"And  you  cannot  tell  me  why?" 

"No,  dear,  and  you  must  not  ask  me.  We 
278 


THE    UNDERLING 

have  good  and  sufficient  reasons  for  it  all.  I 
know  it  looks  as  if  we  were  treating  William 
terribly,  but  we  are  treating  him  better  than 
you  may  think."  Suddenly  Edgar's  face,  look 
ing  down  at  Rose's  beautiful  one,  changed. 
"Say,  Rose,  what  are  you  going  to  be  married 
in?"  said  he.  "White" and  a  veil?" 

"If  I  am  not  too  old,"  replied  Rose,  with  a 
curious  angry  blush. 

"  Stuff!"  said  Edgar.  " There  is  not  a  young 
girl  in  town  who  can  compare  with  you.  White 
you  wear,  veil  and  all.  Now  I  have  waited  all 
this  time,  you  need  not  think  I  am  going  to 
miss  anything."  Edgar  laughed  again,  exult- 
ingly,  and  again  his  exultant  laugh  irritated 
Rose.  "Why  did  you  make  me  wait  so  long, 
dear?"  he  asked.  "You  never  even  gave  me 
a  chance  to  ask  you  before." 

"I  wasn't  in  any  hurry  to  get  married,"  re 
plied  Rose,  evasively. 

"Hurry!  I  should  think  not,"  returned  Ed 
gar,  laughing  a  loud  peal.  "Well,"  he  said, 
"  you've  got  to  hurry  now,  dear;  and  I  am  going 
to  have  the  wedding  march  played  like  a  jig, 
and  you  will  have  to  run  up  the  aisle,  with 
your  white  veil  streaming  out  behind."  Edgar 
leaned  his  face  close  to  Rose  to  kiss  her,  but 
she  pushed  him  away. 

"Don't!"  said  she. 

19  279 


THE   FAIR   LAVINIA   AND   OTHERS 

Edgar  regarded  her  with  hurt  astonishment. 
"Why,"  said  he,  "aren't  you  going  to  let  me 
kiss  you,  now  we  are  engaged?" 

"Once,  when  you  go  home,"  said  Rose. 

That  night  when  Edgar  had  gone  it  was 
nearly  midnight.  Rose  went  up  to  her  room, 
and  the  door  of  Gloria's  opposite  was  wide  open. 
The  room  was  full  of  moonlight,  and  Rose  saw 
Gloria  stir  in  her  white  bed.  She  entered  soft 
ly,  setting  her  candle  on  a  little  table  in  the 
entry. 

"Are  you  awake,  Gloria?"  she  whispered, 
softly. 

"Yes.     What  is  it?" 

"I  am  going  to  marry  Edgar  Lynde  before 
long." 

"I  hope  you'll  be  real  happy,"  Gloria  whis 
pered  back.  Rose  went  up  to  the  bed,  and 
Gloria  kissed  her.  Then  Rose  went  out. 
"Please  shut  my  door,"  Gloria  said,  in  a  muf 
fled  voice. 

After  Rose  had  gone,  Gloria  still  lay  there 
awake  in  the  moonlight.  Her  cheeks  were 
quite  wet  with  tears;  and  yet  she  was  not  con 
scious  of  unhappiness  or  of  envy  because  of 
the  sight  of  her  sister's  possessing  a  happiness 
which  she  must  miss.  Still,  her  self  -  esteem 
held  her  firm.  She  felt  like  the  background  of 
gloom  against  which  there  is  only  possible  the 
280 


THE    UNDERLING 

true  belief  of  happiness.  She  almost  felt  as  if, 
had  there  been  no  Gloria,  with  her  calm  self- 
renunciation,  there  could  have  been  no  Rose — 
certainly  no  Rose  to  the  extent  of  beauty  and 
happiness  of  which  she  was  capable.  She  lay 
awake  a  long  time  planning  Rose's  trousseau. 


II 

The  next  Sunday  Rose  dined  with  the  Lyndes. 
She  was  charming  in  her  summer  silk  of  a  soft, 
brown  shade  and  her  hat  with  the  brim  faced 
with  pink  roses.  There  was  a  state  dinner. 

William  as  usual  sat  meekly  with  the  hired 
men  in  the  kitchen,  but  he  ate  nothing.  He 
was  ghastly  pale.  He  had  dressed  himself,  as 
he  always  did  on  Sunday,  in  his  best  clothes. 
After  dinner  he  went  across  the  field  to  his  ac 
customed  seat  on  the  stone-wall  and  thought 
about  what  was  coming,  how  Rose  Willard  was 
going  to  marry  Edgar  and  would  live  in  the 
house  as  his  brother's  wife.  "  I've  got  to  stop 
feeling  about  her  the  way  I  have  done,"  he  said 
to  himself.  "There  is  no  use  talking,  it  has 
got  to  be  done." 

Sitting  there,  the  man  strove  as  resolutely 
and  with  as  much  agony  to  pluck  the  love  from 
his  heart  as  a  wounded  man  to  pluck  a  spear 
281 


THE   FAIR   LAVINIA   AND    OTHERS 

from  a  wound.     "It  has  got  to  be  done,"  he 
kept  saying  to  himself  over  and  over. 

At  last,  when  he  rose  and  crept  off  home 
across  the  fields  he  actually  limped.  He  looked 
like  an  old  man. 

The  next  afternoon  William  left  the  hay- 
field  early;  the  hay  was  nearly  in,  and  he 
considered  that  they  could  spare  him.  James 
called  after  him  in  wonder. 

"Where  are  you  going,  William?"  he  asked. 

"  I  must  drive  over  to  Askam  before  sup 
per,"  William  replied,  never  turning  his  head, 
as  he  strode  across  the  field  in  his  unwonted 
self-assertion. 

Edgar  wiped  his  forehead,  gazed  towards  the 
west,  where  the  sun  was  sinking,  and  thought 
of  Rose.  He  fairly  laughed  with  love  of  her 
and  self  -  love.  He  worshipped  at  a  double 
shrine,  and  was  in  an  ecstasy.  He  thought  how 
happy  he  was,  and  how  happy  he  was  making 
Rose,  and  he  laughed  again.  The  hired  men, 
watching  him  furtively,  grinned. 

"  He  dunno  whether  he's  on  his  head  or  his 
heels,"  one  grunted  to  the  other. 

Meanwhile  William  was  driving  a  lame  old 
horse  to  Askam.  He  was  going  to  buy  a  wed 
ding-present  for  Rose.  He  had  his  own  account 
at  the  Askam  bank.  He  drew  generously  upon 
it,  and  carried  home  a  service  of  solid  silver. 

282 


THE   UNDERLING 

When  he  reached  home  supper  was  over,  and 
Emma  had  relapsed  from  her  frame  of  mind  of 
the  day  before. 

"  Supper  is  all  over,"  she  said,  sternly,  to  him 
when  he  entered  by  the  kitchen  door  as  usual. 

4 'It's  all  right,"  replied  William,  carrying  his 
large,  neat  package  from  the  jeweller's. 

Emma  eyed  it  curiously.  "  I  can't  have  sup 
per  standin'  round  an  hour  on  a  washin'-day," 
said  she. 

"  It's  all  right,"  repeated  William.  "  I  don't 
want  any  supper."  Then,  much  to  her  aston 
ishment,  he  passed  directly  into  the  sitting- 
room  with  his  package.  He  produced  as  much 
astonishment  there.  His  sisters,  seated  near 
the  table  with  their  work,  and  James  with  his 
evening  paper  (Edgar  had  gone  to  see  Rose), 
started.  William  spoke  to  his  elder  sister, 
Mrs.  Meserve.  "Will  you  come  into  the  par 
lor  a  minute?"  said  he.  "I  want  to  speak  to 
you." 

Mrs.  Meserve  cast  a  glance  of  wonder  and 
alarm  at  her  sister  and  James,  and  rose  and 
followed  William  into  the  parlor. 

"I  got  a  present,"  said  William,  "and  I 
thought  I  would  like  to  have  you  see  it." 

"A  wedding- present ?"  asked  Mrs.  Meserve. 
William  nodded.  He  was  busy  unwrapping 
the  package. 

283 


THE   FAIR   LAVINIA   AND    OTHERS 

"  Well,  you  are  in  a  hurry,"  said  Mrs.  Meserve. 

William  opened  the  box  and  displayed  his 
purchases  in  their  Canton-flannel  bags. 

Mrs.  Meserve  gasped.  "You  don't  mean 
it's  solid?"  said  she. 

"You  don't  suppose  I  would  give  her  any 
thing  that  was  not  solid,"  said  William.  He 
spoke  in  a  tone  of  resentment  new  to  him,  but 
Mrs.  Meserve  was  so  wrapped  in  her  contem 
plation  of  the  shining  silver  pieces,  which  gave 
off  bluish  lights  in  the  room,  that  she  did  not 
notice. 

"It  is  magnificent,"  she  said,  in  an  awed 
voice.  "Magnificent.  I  never  saw  anything 
to  equal  it." 

"Then  you  think  it  is  all  right,  that  I  could 
not  have  got  anything  better?"  asked  William, 
and  his  voice  expressed  a  pathetic  pleasure. 

"Better?  Goodness!  I  should  think  it  was 
a  princess  that  was  going  to  get  married.  I 
never  saw  anything  like  it.  I  don't  see  when 
she's  going  to  use  it,  for  my  part." 

"Well,  I'm  glad  it's  all  right,"  said  William. 
Then  he  returned,  crossing  the  sitting-room  in 
his  humble  fashion,  and  they  heard  his  steps 
on  the  back  stairs  leading  to  his  room. 

Mrs.  Meserve,  who  had  followed  him,  spoke 
as  soon  as  the  door  was  closed  behind  him. 
"  He  has  bought  a  solid-silver  service,  ever  so 
284 


THE    UNDERLING 

many  pieces — I  never  saw  anything  so  mag 
nificent — for  a  wedding-present,"  said  she. 

Annie  dropped  her  work.  "A  solid- silver  ser 
vice!"  exclaimed  she. 

''The  handsomest  one  you  ever  laid  your 
eyes  on." 

Annie  and  James  followed  Mrs.  Meserve  into 
the  parlor  to  inspect  William's  wedding- present 
to  Rose.  lie  himself,  sitting  beside  the  win 
dow  in  his  little  bedroom,  reflected  upon  it 
with  a  measure  of  self-gratulation  new  to  him. 
It  was  a  hot  night  and  overcast.  There  was 
a  fine  misting  rain.  It  blew  into  the  open  win 
dow  upon  him  until  he  was  quite  damp.  He 
seemed  to  see  the  blue  lights  of  the  silver  pieces, 
and  he  tried  to  see  them  as  Rose  might.  At 
last  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  could  do  so.  He 
became  sure  that  he  was  reflecting  Upon  the, 
possession  of  the  silver"exactly.  ^as  a  woman 
might  do,  and  he  smiled  in  the  darkness,  an 
angelic v"  smile  of  unselfish  love.  Theji^Jje 
coughed.  He  had  coughed  a  good  deal  lately, 
but  ndBbdy^had  noticed  it.  He  Batt"  not  "no 
ticed  it  himself.  However,  his  cough  settled  a 
much-deliberated  question  when  the  night  of 
the  wedding  came,  a  month  later.  The  Lyndes 
had  wondered  whether  it  would  be  inevitable 
that  he  should  go. 

"He  has  no  clothes  fit,"  said  Mrs.  Meserve, 
285 


THE   FAIR    LAVINIA  AND  OTHERS 

"  and  it  seems  hardly  advisable  to  get  them  for 
just  one  occasion." 

"That  is  so,"  replied  Annie. 

William  himself  had  made  up  his  mind.  A 
curious  pride  in  going  possessed  him.  The 
worm  turned.  He  ordered  a  suit  of  clothes  in 
Askam  at  his  brother's  tailor's,  and  the  tailor 
told  Edgar. 

When  Edgar  came  home  after  trying  on  his 
wedding  suit,  he  told  James.  "Say,"  he  said, 
"William  is  going." 

"To  the  wedding?" 

"Yes;  he  is  having  some  clothes  made.  The 
tailor  told  me." 

James  frowned.  "  Well,  perhaps  it  is  better," 
he  said,  at  length.  "  People  might  think  it  sin 
gular  for  him  not  to  attend  his  own  brother's 
wedding,  and  might  talk,  and  that  is  what  we 
don't  want." 

But  when  the  day  of  the  wedding  came, 
William's  cough  had  so  increased  that  it  had 
come  to  be  noticed,  and  Annie  and  Mrs.  Meserve 
talked  it  over. 

"It  is  no  use,"  said  Annie,  positively;  "leav 
ing  everything  else  out  of  the  question,  he  can^ 
not  go  for  that  reason  alone.  He  coughs  every 
minute.  It  is  incessant.  Hear  him  now."  In 
fact,  at  that  moment  the  sound  of  William's 
persistent  cough  was  heard  from  the  kitchen, 
286 


THE    UNDERLING 

"Such  a  cough  as  that  right  through  the 
ceremony,"  said  Annie — "why,  it  is  ridiculous. 
Of  course  he  can't  go." 

"But  his  clothes  have  come  home  from  the 
tailor's,  and  everything,"  Mrs.  Meserve  said, 
hesitating. 

"Nonsense,  Agnes;  he  can't  go.  You  know 
yourself  that  anybody  that  coughs  like  that 
can't  possibly  go  to  a  wedding." 

That  afternoon,  when  William  was  sitting 
alone  on  the  back  porch,  Mrs.  Meserve  came 
out  hesitatingly.  She  did  not  like  what  she 
had  to  do.  She  told  him  that  she  and  Annie 
had  been  talking  it  over,  and  they  both  thought 
that,  coughing  as  he  did,  it  was  hardly  advisable 
for  him  to  go  to  the  wedding.  William  turned 
his  face  towards  her,  and  for  the  first  time  she 
saw  an  expression  of  something  like  reproach 
on  it.  She  noticed,  too,  for  the  first  time  that 
he  had  grown  thin.  He  had  shaved,  and  was 
all  ready  to  don  the  new  suit  which  lay  on  his 
bed  up-stairs. 

"We  both  think  it  best,"  said  Mrs.  Meserve, 
again,  in  a  faltering  tone.  Then  she  added: 
"  It  will  be  a  damp  night,  too,  and  it  is  hardly 
safe  for  you  to  go  out,  coughing  as  you  do, 
William." 

William  looked  away.  "All  right,"  he  re 
sponded. 

287 


THE    FAIR   LAVINIA  AND  OTHERS 

"You  can  put  on  your  new  clothes,  and  we 
will  send  a  carriage  and  you  can  go  to  the 
reception  afterwards  at  Rose's." 

4 'All  right,"  said  William. 

When  Mrs.  Meserve  joined  Annie,  she  replied 
rather  soberly  to  her  question  as  to  whether 
she  had  told  William. 

"He  said  all  right,"  answered  Mrs.  Meserve. 
"Annie—" 

"What  is  it?"  said  Annie.  She  was  fasten 
ing  pink  roses  on  the  front  of  her  dress. 

"Do  you  suppose  that  cough  ought  to  be 
looked /out  for?  He  has  grown  very  thin.  I 
noticeu  it  for  the  first  time  just  now." 

"Nonsense!  It  is  only  a  throat  cough,"  re 
plied  Annie.  "Has  Edgar  gone?" 

"  Yes;  he  started  just  before  I  came  up-stairs. 
He  looked  as  handsome  as  a  picture.  I  hope 
you  are  right  about  William's  cough." 

But  in  the  mean  time  something  unforeseen 
and  unprecedented  was  happening  at  the  Wil- 
lard  House. 

Edgar  had  proceeded  to  the  house  of  the 
bride  -  elect,  because  of  a  note  just  received 
from  her  aunt  asking  him  to  do  so.  The  note 
was  evidently  written  hurriedly  and  had  an 
agitated  air.  "  Please  come  at  once  instead  of 
going  to  the  church  first ;  something  has  hap- 
288 


THE   UNDERLING 

pened,"  it  said.  Edgar  felt  a  little  uneasy  as 
he  rolled  along  the  old,  familiar  road,  with  such 
a  feeling  of  strangeness  in  his  heart  that  it  al 
most  looked  unfamiliar  to  him.  He  gazed  out 
at  the  leafless  trees,  whose  branches  gleamed 
golden  under  the  brilliant  winter  sun  against 
the  blue  of  the  sky,  and  it  did  not  seem  that 
they  could  possibly  be  the  same  trees  which  he 
had  seen  ever  since  he  could  remember,  but, 
instead,  trees  which  had  gotten  their  growth  in 
some  unknown  paradise.  He  was  very  fond 
of  Rose,  and  very  happy.  It  is  true  that  her 
aunt's  letter  made  him  a  little  uneasy,  but  his 
cheerful  optimism  sustained  him. 

When  he  reached  Rose's  house,  her  aunt's 
face  disappeared  from  the  window,  and  the 
front  door  opene.d  directly. 

Edgar  sprang  lightly  out  of  the  coach,  and 
ran  up  the  walk  and  the  steps.  "Why,  what 
is  the  matter?"  he  asked,  laughingly, 

"Come  in  a  minute,"  replied  Mrs.  Ames, 
mysteriously. 

Edgar  followed  her  into  the  house  and  the 
sitting-room.  "  What  is  the  matter?"  he  asked 
again,  and  he  was  still  smiling. 

Mrs.   Ames,    who   was   emotional,   began  to 
cry.     Even  then  Edgar's  smiling  face  did  not 
change.     "I  don't  know  what  has  come  over 
Rose,"  Mrs.  Ames  sobbed  out. 
289 


THE   FAIR   LAVINIA  AND  OTHERS 

"She  isn't  sick?" 

"  No,  but  she  said  she  must  see  you  before 
she  went  to  the  church,  and — " 

"And  what?" 

"Oh,  she  looks  and  acts  so  queer.  I  don't 
know  what  is  the  matter." 

Edgar  laughed  outright.  "Oh,  Lord!  prob 
ably  her  dress  doesn't  fit,"  said  he,  lightly. 
"Where  is  she?" 

"She's  in  the  parlor  with  Gloria.  She's  all 
dressed.  It  isn't  that.  It  fits  her  beauti 
fully.  She's  just  like  marble.  I  don't  know 
what  the  matter  is.  I  guess  she's  told  Gloria, 
but  she  hasn't  said  a  word  to  me,  her  own 
aunt,  that's  been  just  like  a  mother  to  her." 
Mrs.  Ames  began  to  weep  weakly. 

Edgar  frowned  a  little;  ttyen  he  laughed 
his  everlasting  laugh  of  sheef^  optimism,  and 
slowly  entered  parlor.  In  the  midst  of  the 
parlor  sat  Rose  enveloped  in  a  cloud  of  fleecy 
white,  through  which  her  face  showed,  as  her 
aunt  had  said,  with  the  rigidity  of  marble. 
Not  a  vestige  of  her  lovely  color  remained. 
Even  her  lips  were  white  and  closely  com 
pressed.  Gloria,  who  was  standing  over  her, 
and  dressed  in  her  wine -colored  silk,  which 
cast  a  glow  over  her  own  usually  colorless  face, 
gave  a  terrified  roll  of  her  eyes  at  Edgar  enter 
ing.  Then  she  murmured  something  about  the 
290 


THE    UNDERLING 

note  which  Rose  had  wished  sent.  Edgar  made 
one  stride  to  Rose,  and,  thrusting  aside  her  veil, 
took  her  hands,  which  were  as  cold  as  ice. 

"What  on  earth  is  to  pay,  dear?"  he  asked. 

Gloria  stood  still,  trembling  visibly  from 
head  to  foot.  Rose  had  told  her  the  whole 
story,  and  she  made  no  motion  to  leave  the 
room. 

Rose  looked  up  at  Edgar,  and  her  features 
contracted  into  an  odd  expression  almost  of 
hate  and  repulsion. 

"What  is  it,  sweetheart?"  Edgar  said  again, 
but  he  was  still  smiling.  It  seemed  as  if  noth- 
ing_could  subdue  his  expression  of  radiant  tri 
umph. 

'  "I've  got  to  tell  you  something,"  Rose  said, 
and  all  the  singing  sweetness  was  gone  from 
her  voice.  It  rang  harsh  and  shrill. 

Her  aunt,  out  in  the  entry,  heard  every  word. 

"Well,  Rose  darling,  what  is  it?  How  love 
ly  you  look!  But,  say,  you  are  awfully  pale. 
Aren't  you  well?" 

"I  am  doing  an  awful  thing,"  Rose  replied, 
in  that  voice  which  did  not  seem  like  hers. 

"Why,  Rose  dear?  Every  girl  gets  married. 
Say,  sweetheart,  you  are  nervous." 

"  No,  I  am  not  nervous.  I  must  tell  you  the 
truth.  I  am  going  to  be  married  to  you." 

"Well,  I  rather  guess  you  are." 
291 


THE    FAIR   LAVINIA   AND   OTHERS 

"I  am  going  to  be  married  to  one  man,  to 
promise  things  before  God  and  man,  when — " 

"When  what?" 

"When  I  love  another  with  all  my  soul  and 
strength,  and  have,  ever  since  I  can  remem 
ber." 

Edgar  still  smiled,  but  now  the  smile  seemed 
like  simply  a  contraction  of  the  muscles  around 
his  handsome  mouth. 

" Who  is  he?" 

"Your  brother." 

"My  brother?    James?" 

"No;  William." 

"Good  Lord!     Why?" 

"I  don't  know  why.  I  know  he  has  done 
something  dreadful.  He  told  me  so  himself. 
I  know  all  that,  but  I  can't  break  off  the  habit 
of  loving  him.  I  have  loved  him  ever  since  I 
went  to  school  with  him." 

"Nonsense,  Rose;  you  are  beside  yourself. 
If  you  knew — " 

"  It  wouldn't  make  any  difference  It 
wouldn't  ever  make 'any  difference  to  me.  I 
have  imagined  everything.  Nobody  can  im 
agine  anything  worse.  He  could  not  have  done 
anything  worse  than  the  things  I  have  imagined, 
but  I  love  him  just  the  same,  more  than  any 
body  in  the  whole  world,  and  I  now  feel  as  if 
his  sin,  whatever  it  is,  is  mine  too.  I  feel  as 
292 


THE    UNDERLING 

if  I  had  done  just  what  he  did,  and  I  can  no 
more  hate  him  for  it  than  I  could  hate  myself. 
I  love  him,  and  I  shall  love  him  just  the  same 
after  I  am  married  to  you." 

"  Good  Lord!"  ejaculated  Edgar,  still  with  his 
mechanical  smile. 

1  'Yes,  I  shall.  I  thought  I  should  not,  but 
all  at  once,  after  I  was  dressed  and  looked  at 
myself  in  the  glass,  I  saw  there  what  would 
always  be — a  woman  who  was  married  to  one 
man  when  she  loved  another  enough  to  die  for 
him;  who  loved  him  enough  to  love  even  what 
ever  he  had  done  that  was  wrong,  and  to  feel 
that  she  would  do  it  herself." 

The  smile  slowly  faded  from  Edgar's  face, 
and  it  was  like  the  going-out  of  a  light.  "  Do 
you  mean  to  back  out,  then,  at  this  late  date, 
when  the  people  must  be  in  the  church?"  said 
he. 

"  No,  I  don't  back  out.  I  will  marry  you  if 
you  say  so.  I  know  I  am  putting  you  in  an 
awful  light  and  doing  you  an  awful  wrong  if  I 
don't,  but  I  can't  marry  you  without  telling 
you  the  truth." 

Edgar  Lynde  had  within  him  the  capacity  of 
men  of  his  make,  who  are  uniformly  good-nat 
ured  and  optimistic,  of  almost  devilish  revolt 
when  pushed  against  the  wall,  of  sudden  moves 
of  almost  incredible  daring.  His  very  opti- 
293 


THE   FAIR   LAVINIA  AND    OTHERS 

mism  had  its  root^in  self-esteem.  It  seemed  to 
him  preposterous,  almost  incredible,  that  any 
thing  like  this  could  happen  to  him.  At  the 
same  time  he  was  not  a  man  to  force  a  woman 
into  an  unwilling  marriage.  A  sort  of  contempt 
was  in  his  face  as  he  gazed  at  Rose  in  her  bri 
dal  attire,  with  her  love  for  his  brother  in  her 
heart.  He  was  almost  brutal.  He  turned  sud 
denly  and  looked  at  Gloria.  Her  eyes  fell. 
She  had  all  her  life,  ever  since  she  could  remem 
ber,  thought  there  was  no  one  to  equal  Edgar 
Lynde  in  the  whole  world.  His  own  anger  and 
wonder  at  her  sister  were  reflected  in  her  face. 
Her  eyes,  which  were  really  lovely,  were  brill 
iant  with  unshed  tears.  The  unwonted  glow 
on  her  cheeks  made  her  almost  beautiful. 

"Look  here,"  said  Edgar  Lynde,  "if  you 
think — "  He  addressed  that  to  Rose,  then 
stopped. 

"  I  will  go  through  with  it  if  you  say  so," 
moaned  Rose,  "but  I  had  to  tell  you  the 
truth." 

"  If  you  think  I  would  marry  a  woman  after 
she  had  confessed  her  love  for  my  own  broth 
er,  and  a  brother  who  is  unworthy  of  it,  you 
are  mistaken,"  said  Edgar  then.  There  was  no 
longer  even  the  semblance  of  a  laugh  or  even 
a  smile  on  his  face.  The  hardening  of  their 
old  lines  made  it  seem,  instead,  fierce.  Then 
294 


s$ 

',' 


I    WILL    GO    THROUGH    WITH    IT    IF    YOU    SAY    SO,      MOANED 
ROSE." 


THE   UNDERLING 

he  continued:  "But,"  he  said,  "if  you  think 
I  am  going  to  have  all  those  people  turned 
away  and  have  them  told  that  there  is  to  be 
no  wedding — "  he  paused  again.  He  looked  at 
Gloria.  Then  he  spoke  again.  "See  here, 
Gloria,"  said  he,  "I  know  second  fiddle  isn't 
the  best  place  in  the  orchestra,  and  I  know  I 
am  asking  you  to  play  it,  but  I'll  promise  you 
to  do  all  I  can  for  you  if  you  will." 

Gloria  stole  a  glance  at  him.  The  color 
mounted  all  over  her  face. 

Edgar  went  on  quite  calmly:  "I  know  I 
have  been  courting  your  sister  a  long  time,  and 
I  won't  pretend  that  I  haven't  thought  more 
of  her  than  of  you,  and  I  expected  to  marry 
her,  of  course,  and  now  she  has  decided  at  the 
last  moment  to  put  me  to  shame  in  the  face  and 
eyes  of  the  whole  town.  You  can  make  it  right 
if  you  will.  People  will  only  think  a  trick  has 
been  played  on  them.  I  have  always  been 
playing  tricks  on  people,  and  they  won't  be 
so  surprised  as  if  I  were  another  man.  I  shall 
like  you  well  enough,  Gloria,  and  I'll  do  my 
best  to  make  you  a  good  husband,  and  you 
have  not  much  to  look  forward  to  here." 

Gloria  again  glanced  at  him.  She  was  so 
agitated  that  she  almost  chattered  like  an  idiot. 
She  was  nearly  in  hysterics. 

"Make  up  your  mind  quickly,"  Edgar  said, 

30  295 


THE    FAIR    LAVINIA  AND   OTHERS 

in  a  masterful  voice.  "  There  isn't  any  time 
to  lose.  Rose's  things  will  fit  you.  Go  up 
stairs  with  her,  and  change  dresses,  and  go 
and  be  married  to  me.  Will  you  do  it,  Gloria  ?" 

"  You  don't  love  me,"  said  Gloria  then,  with 
a  piteous  cry — her  last  cry  of  affronted  mkiden- 
hood. 

"Oh,  Lord!"  said  Edgar,  "I  shall  love  you 
well  enough.  I  dare  say  I  should  have  loved 
you  instead  of  Rose  in  the  first  place  if  you  had 
been  as  good-looking,  and  in  a  few  years  what 
do  looks  amount  to?  I  shall  like  you  well 
enough.  I  am  not  one  of  the  kind  of  men 
who  go  into  fits  over  a  woman,  anyway.  I 
shall  be  just  as  happy  with  you  as  with  her. 
Hurry,  Gloria.  There  is  the  carriage  for  you 
and  your  aunt  and  Rose  now."  In  fact,  a  car 
riage  decorated  with  white  ribbons  just  then 
drove  up  before  the  parlor  windows.  Gloria 
cast  one  more  glance  at  Edgar — a  glance  of 
adoration,  of  shame,  and  something  like  guilt; 
then  she  looked  at  her  sister.  Rose  made  an 
almost  imperceptible  motion  towards  the  door. 
Gloria  followed  her.  They  both  rustled  out  of 
the  room.  "Be  as  quick  as  you  can,"  Edgar 
called  after  them.  His  face  was  very  pale, 
but  it  had  resumed  its  look  of  pride  at  his 
awards  of  life.  He  called  to  Mrs.  Ames  in  the 
entry,  and  was  laughing  when  he  accosted  her. 
296 


THE    UNDERLING 

"I  have  something  to  tell  you,"  he  said.  She 
stared  at  him,  white-faced.  "You  thought  I 
was  going  to  marry  Rose  all  the  time,  didn't 
you?"  said  Edgar. 

"Of  course,"  gasped  Mrs.  Ames. 

14  Well,  I'm  going  to  marry  Gloria.  I  think 
if  you  go  up-stairs  and  help  them  change  dresses, 
it  might  help." 

Mrs.  Ames,  ascending  the  stairs  tremblingly, 
cast  a  scared  look  over  her  shoulder  at  him. 

41  It  would  be  better  for  all  concerned — for 
Rose  and  Gloria  and  me — if  nothing  of  this  got 
out,"  said  Edgar.  He  began  whistling  as  Mrs. 
Ames  kept  on  up  the  stairs.  He  then  went  out 
of  the  house,  got  into  his  own  carriage,  and 
drove  to  the  church,  where  most  of  the  wed 
ding-guests  were  already  assembled. 

It  is  probable  that  there  had  never  been  such 
a  sensation  in  the  village  as  that  occasioned 
by  Edgar  Lynde  meeting  Gloria  in  bridal  array 
instead  of  Rose,  and  being  married  to  her.  It 
was  a  simple  wedding.  Rose  sat  in  the  au 
dience,  dressed  in  the  wine-colored  silk  which 
had  been  intended  for  her  sister.  Edgar  had 
whispered  vehemently  to  his  sisters  and  broth 
er,  and  they  maintained  an  outward  calmness, 
as  if  everything  was  going  forward  as  had  been 
planned,  as  did  Rose  and  her  aunt.  People 
actually  thought  that  it  was  one  of  the  whim- 
297 


THE    FAIR   LAVINIA  AND   OTHERS 

sical  proceedings  for  which  Edgar  Lynde  had 
always  been  noted  in  the  place;  that  he  had 
stolen  a  march  upon  them,  and  had  been  court 
ing  Gloria  all  the  time  instead  of  Rose,  and 
had  meant  to  marry  her.  Still,  they  wondered. 
Rose  was,  superficially  at  least,  so  superior  to 
Gloria.  However,  Gloria,  in  her  bridal  white, 
looked  better  than  she  had  ever  done  before. 
The  shock  of  happiness  radiated  her  dull  face; 
her  cheeks  glowed.  People  whispered  that  she 
was  almost  as  pretty  as  Rose,  after  all,  and 
they  guessed  maybe  she  would  make  a  better 
wife. 

William  went  to  the  reception,  and  moved 
mechanically  up  to  greet  his  brother  and  his 
bride.  When  he  saw  Gloria's  face  under  the 
filmy  veil  instead  of  Rose's,  his  own  turned 
ghastly  white,  and  he  staggered.  A  man  caught 
his  arm. 

"What  is  the  matter?  Are  you  sick?"  he 
asked. 

William  wavered  back  amid  the  crowd.  "  No, 
it  isn't  anything,"  he  replied,  choking  back 
his  cough. 

"You  look  dreadful  pale,"  said  the  man, 
kindly.  He  was  a  young  farmer  with  a  sym 
pathetic  nature.  He  steered  William  over  to 
a  sofa.  "You'd  better  set  down,"  said  he, 
"and  I'll  see  if  Almira  can't  scare  you  up  a 
298 


THE   UNDERLING 

cup  of  coffee."  Almira  was  the  farmer's  wife. 
Presently  she  came,  bringing  the  coffee  to 
William,  who  remained  sitting  where  he  had 
been  placed,  but  whose  look  was  aloof  upon 
Rose  in  her  wine  -  colored  silk,  talking  with 
seeming  gayety  with  a  knot  of  people  on  the 
other  side  of  the  room.  Rose's  manner  was  the 
same  as  ever,  but  her  look  was  strange,  and 
people  remarked  it.  They  whispered  among 
themselves.  William  heard  a  man  say  to  an 
other  that  Rose  Willard  had  got  left,  he  guessed ; 
that  it  wasn't  always  the  birds  with  the  finest 
feathers  that  got  the  nest.  He  himself  was 
fairly  dizzy  with  bewilderment.  Edgar  had 
said  nothing  to  him.  He  had  not,  in  fact, 
considered  it  worth  while.  William  gradually 
gathered  consciousness,  sitting  there  on  the 
sofa  sipping  his  coffee,  that  Rose  was  not,  after 
all,  married;  but  he  also  seemed  to  gather  a 
stronger  consciousness  than  ever  before  that 
she  was  out  of  his  own  reach.  She  had  never 
seemed  so  far  from  him  as  that  afternoon,  as 
she  stood  and  chatted  with  the  wedding-guests. 
She  never  once  looked  at  him — at  least,  if  she 
did,  he  did  not  know  it.  He  noticed  the  strange 
look  on  her  beautiful  face,  and  wondered  with 
the  rest  what  it  meant. 

It  was  not  long  after  Edgar's  marriage  that 
William  moved  out  of  the  Lynde  house  into  a 

299 


THE   FAIR    LAVINIA   AND    OTHERS 

little  shanty  in  the  field.  It  had  one  room  and 
a  chimney,  and  could  be  warmed,  and  was  com 
fortable  enough.  Gloria  was  the  cause  of  his 
moving.  Now  she  was  married  and  at  a  pitch 
of  happiness  and  success  which  she  had  never 
anticipated,  her  character  took  on  a  higher 
phase  of  self -satisfaction.  She  said  openly  to 
Edgar  that  either  they  must  have  a  new  house 
or  William  must  live  elsewhere.  She  showed 
the  true  imperiousness  which  had  always  been 
dormant  in  her  nature. 

"As  for  living  in  a  family  where  one  of  the 
sons  has  done  some  awful  thing  so  he  can't 
live  with  the  others,  but  has  to  eat  with  the 
hired  men,  I  won't,"  said  she. 

The  Lynde  property  was  undivided.  It  was 
almost  impossible  for  Edgar  to  separate  his 
portion  from  the  rest  and  live  separately.  The 
family  discussed  the  matter,  and  William  moved 
his  poor  belongings  into  the  little  shanty  in 
the  field.  He  was  quite  uncomplaining.  Some 
times  he  wished  that  Rose  had  owned  the  silver 
service  which  glittered  on  the  table  when  the 
family  entertained,  which  was  quite  frequent 
ly  since  Edgar's  marriage.  However,  he  took 
some  comfort  in  the  reflection  that  Rose  at 
least  had  the  use  of  the  silver  sugar-bowl  and 
cream-pitcher.  But  soon  he  became  very  ill. 
Then  he  was  moved,  in  spite  of  his  protest,  into 

300 


THE    UNDERLING 

the  house,  and  James  gave  up  his  own  chamber 
— a  large,  sunny  room — to  him.  A  specialist 
was  consulted,  a  nurse  was  engaged,  and  Rose 
stayed  at  the  house  a  great  deal  to  assist,  al 
though  she  never  saw  William.  She  had  a 
knack  at  delicate  cookery,  and  she  prepared  the 
greater  part  of  his  meals.  She  herself  grew  thin 
and  pale,  and  her  beauty  waned.  She  was  torn 
with  grief  and  love,  and  horror  of  that  unknown 
something  which  William  had  done.  She  had 
locked  up  in  her  little  rosewood  desk  a  letter 
which  William  had  written  and  sent  to  her  the 
day  after  their  conversation  in  the  field,  when 
he  had  thought  she  was  to  marry  Edgar.  It 
was  addressed  to  Miss  Rose  Willard,  and  that 
envelope  contained  another,  on  which  was  in 
scribed,  "To  be  opened  and  read  after  my 
death." 

She  often  thought  of  this  letter.  William, 
now  he  was  so  ill,  seemed  the  centre  around 
which  the  whole  family  revolved.  Their  very 
indignation  towards  him  made  them  more 
eager  to  do  all  that  could  be  done. 

At  last  it  was  said  that  William's  death  was 
only  a  matter  of  days.  He  no  longer  left  his 
bed.  It  was  then  that  Rose  made  up  her 
mind.  She  was  a  woman  with  a  good  head 
and  strong  sense  of  justice,  and  that  influenced 
her  as  well  as  her  love  for  the  sick  man.  "  I 
301 


THE    FAIR    LAVINIA  AND    OTHERS 

don't  know  what  William  has  done,"  she  said 
to  herself,  " and  they  will  not  tell  me;  but  they 
must  think  it  is  something  dreadful  or  they 
wouldn't  have  treated  him  as  they  have  done. 
Now  it  may  be  that  they  are  mistaken,  and 
this  letter  which  William  wrote  for  me  to  read 
after  he  was  dead  explains  everything.  If  that 
is  the  case,  what  folly  it  is  for  me  to  wait  until 
he  is  dead.  I  should  regret  it  all  the  days 
of  my  life."  She  considered  her  own  possible 
pain  as  well  as  the  injustice  to  William  when 
she  opened  the  letter  the  afternoon  before  he 
died. 

She  locked  herself  into  a  room  before  open 
ing  it,  although  she  was  quite  safe  from  in 
trusion.  James  and  Edgar  had  gone  on  busi 
ness  to  Askam;  Annie  was  lying  down;  Mrs. 
Meserve  had  gone  on  an  errand  to  the  drug 
store.  Rose,  having  locked  the  door,  opened 
the  letter  and  read  it.  It  did  not  take  long. 
It  was  very  short.  Rose  thrust  the  letter  into 
the  bosom  of  her  dress,  and  crossed  the  hall  to 
William's  sick-room.  She  knocked,  and  the 
nurse  came  to  the  door.  "How  is  he?"  she 
whispered.  She  was  trembling  from  head  to 
foot. 

"He  is  quiet  now,"  replied  the  nurse.  "He 
had  a  hard  coughing-spell  an  hour  ago,  but  he 
has  been  quiet  since." 

302 


THE   UNDERLING 

"Is  he  asleep?" 

The  nurse  cast  a  glance  into  the  room. 
William  was  lying  very  still,  with  eyes  partly 
closed  and  a  ghastly  streak  of  white  visible 
between  the  lids.  "No,  I  don't  think  so,"  he 
replied. 

"I  want  to  speak  to  him  a  moment,"  said 
Rose,  "and  I  want  you  to  go  down-stairs  while 
I  do  so.  I  have  something  particular  to  say 
while  he  is  able  to  understand  it." 

The  nurse  looked  hesitatingly  at  her.  "You 
know  it  will  not  do  to  excite  him,"  he  said. 

"I  will  not  excite  him  to  hurt  him,"  said 
Rose,  "but  I  must  speak  to  him." 

The  nurse  went  rather  reluctantly  down 
stairs,  and  Rose  entered  the  room.  She  went 
straight  to  the  bed  where  the  sick  man  lay — 
a  stark  shape,  dimly  outlined  beneath  the  bed 
clothes,  his  head  deeply  sunken  in  the  pillow 
as  if  with  an  abnormal  heaviness,  his  face  ghast 
ly,  and  his  expression  fixed  in  a  sort  of  majestic 
patience  and  melancholy. 

1 '  William, ' '  said  Rose—' '  William. ' ' 

William  opened  his  eyes  and  looked  at  her, 
although  seeming  at  the  same  time  to  look  at 
something  past  her.  He  essayed  a  smile,  but 
his  face  relapsed  into  its  majestic  melan 
choly.  He  had  almost  done  with  the  things  of 
earth. 

303 


THE    FAIR   LAVINIA   AND   OTHERS 

"William,"  said  Rose.  "I — I  opened  your 
letter." 

A  sudden  light  of  interest  leaped  into  the 
sick  man's  face.  He  tried  to  speak,  but  the 
cough  choked  him.  He  made  a  terrific  effort 
to  subdue  the  cough,  and  succeeded.  "Why 
didn't  you  wait?"  he  asked,  in  a  loud,  clear 
voice,  which  was  startling,  coming  from  those 
lips,  so  straight  and  blue  that  they  looked  like 
those  of  one  already  dead. 

"I  thought  it  over,"  said  Rose,  in  her  sweet, 
singing  voice,  "  and  I  made  up  my  mind  it 
wasn't  just  to  you  to  wait  till  you  were  gone. 
I  made  up  my  mind  that  if  I  had  been  mis 
taken  I  would  not  want  to  reproach  myself 
with  it  all  my  life." 

William  looked  at  her,  and  his  look  was  half 
reproachful,  half  joyful,  as  if,  in  spite  of  himself, 
he  was  glad  for  what  she  had  done. 

Rose  glanced  at  the  door,  and  saw  that  it  was 
tightly  closed.  "William,  I  know  it  all  now," 
she  said.  "  How  you  destroyed  your  father's 
will  because  he  had  left  everything  to  you,  and 
how  they  found  it  out,  and  thought  it  was  the 
other  way  around." 

"If  I  had  told  them,"  said  the  sick  man, 
"they  would  all  have  gone  off  and  had  noth 
ing,  and  left  me  here.  You  don't  know  how 
proud — "  He  struggled  again  with  his  cough. 
304 


THE    UNDERLING 

"I  know  you  have  been  put  upon  all  these 
years,"  said  Rose,  and  her  singing  voice  qua 
vered. 

"  It  was  a  dreadful  thing  I  did.  I  made  my 
self  liable — "  said  the  sick  man.  He  cleared 
his  voice,  which  seemed  to  come  not  so  much 
from  his  throat  as  from  his  soul,  such  a  far-off 
quality  was  in  it.  "The  sense  of  guilt  has  al 
ways  kept  me  down,"  he  said.  "  It  wasn't  al 
together  the  way  they  treated  me;  they  had 
reason.  I  had  made  myself  an  underling.  I 
knew  I  was  guilty." 

"Guilty,"  repeated  Rose — "guilty  for  a  rea 
son  like  that!"  She  began  to  weep  softly,  turn 
ing  away  her  head  that  William  might  not  see 
her. 

"Father  had  a  hasty  temper,"  said  William, 
"and  he  and  James  quarrelled;  then  Edgar  got 
mixed  up  in  it,  and  Annie,  and  he  didn't  like 
Agnes's  husband.  He  left  them  each  a  dollar 
apiece,  and  all  the  rest  to  me.  I  couldn't  have 
it  so.  I  don't  believe  but  father  has  thought 
better  of  it  himself  by  this  time." 

Rose  continued  to  weep  softly. 

"  If  the  lawyer  who  drew  up  the  will  hadn't 
died  suddenly,  just  as  father  did,  I  couldn't 
have  done  it,"  said  William.  "James  was  sus 
picious,  and  he  watched  me  that  night  when 
I  went  down  to  father's  desk.  Father  had  told 
305 


THE   FAIR    LAVINIA   AND    OTHERS 

me  all  about  the  will,  and  I  couldn't  get  him  to 
change  it.  We  had  words  about  it,  and  James 
had  overheard  something,  and  put  the  wrong 
construction  on  it.  Father  was  unconscious, 
and  I  knew  he  wouldn't  live  till  morning. 
James  caught  me  just  as  I  put  the  will  in  the 
fire,  and  he  couldn't  save  it.  It  was  blazing. 
He  accused  me,  and  told  the  others.  I  couldn't 
deny  it.  I  was  guilty." 

Rose  wiped  her  eyes,  came  close  to  William, 
leaned  over,  and  kissed  his  forehead. 

"Now  I  will  have  you  righted,"  said  she. 

But  the  sick  man  roused  himself,  and  sat 
up  with  a  terrible  effort.  "Oh,  Rose,"  he 
begged,  "don't  tell  them.  Don't  you  see?" 

"See  what,  William?" 

"They  will  never  get  over  it  if  they  know, 
and  I  only  wanted  you  to  know,  and  I  am  al 
most  through." 

"Well,"  said  Rose,  "I  won't  tell  them  if  you 
say  not  to,  William." 

"There  is  no  use  in  the  living  worrying  over 
the  troubles  of  the  dead,  when  they  meant 
right,"  said  William. 

Rose  went  over  to  the  hearth,  where  there 
was  a  fire  burning,  and  dropped  the  letter.  It 
blazed  up  quickly.  William  smiled.  He  had 
settled  down  again  into  a  shrunken  heap.  Rose 
went  up  to  William  and  kissed  him  again.  "  I 
306 


THE    UNDERLING 

didn't  marry  your  brother  because  I  loved  you 
so,"  said  she.  "I  told  him  so  at  the  last  min 
ute,  and  he  asked  Gloria.  I  loved  you,  sin  and 
all,  William,  and  now — I  see,  I  love  you,  good 
ness  and  all.  I  have  never  seen  such  a  good 
man  as  you,  William,  and  loving  you  is  better 
than  being  married  to  anybody  else." 

Then  the  nurse  came  in  and  Rose  went  out, 
and  shortly  afterwards  William  had  a  frightful 
coughing-spell.  He  became  unconscious  soon 
after  midnight,  in  that  wane  of  creation  when 
the  vitality  of  things  of  the  earth  is  low,  and 
died  before  morning. 

It  was  the  evening  of  the  day  of  the  funeral 
that  James  told  Rose  what  had  been  the  cause 
of  the  dead  man's  dissension  with  his  family. 

"We  would  not  tell  you,  even  though  you 
had  become  one  of  us,"  he  said,  "but,  now  that 
the  poor  boy  is  gone,  it  can  do  him  no  harm, 
and  in  a  way  we  owe  it  to  you  and  to  our 
selves." 

They  were  all  sitting  in  the  best  parlor,  and 
the  sisters  had  reddened  eyes.  They  had  been 
weeping.  James  spoke  tenderly,  even  while  re 
lating  what  his  dead  brother  had  done.  It 
was  evident  that  all  rancor  on  the  part  of  the 
family  had  disappeared. 

"Poor  devil!"  said  Edgar. 
307 


THE    FAIR    LAVINIA   AND    OTHERS 

"He  always  had  a  sweet  disposition,"  said 
Mrs.  Meserve,  in  a  weeping  voice. 

"  I  think  he  was  out  of  his  mind  when  he  did 
it,"  said  Annie,  sobbingly. 

It  seemed  incumbent  upon  Rose  to  speak. 
"I  never  lay  up  anything  against  the  dead," 
said  she.  "He  may  have  been  better  in  his 
heart  than  any  of  us." 

"God  alone  sees  the  heart,"  observed  Mrs. 
Meserve,  in  a  solemn  voice. 

"That  is  so,"  said  Gloria. 

Rose  said  no  more.  She  sat  beside  the  win 
dow.  It  was  a  wonderfully  bright  moonlight 
night,  and  they  had  not  lit  the  lamps.  The 
field  across  the  road  from  the  house  stretched 
in  vast  levels  of  silver  light.  It  seemed  to 
Rose  that  she  could  see  the  underling  coming 
across  the  field  with  a  glory  of  his  good  motives 
around  his  head,  and  bent  no  longer  beneath 
the  burden  of  his  earthly  deeds,  and  she  felt 
like  his  bride. 


THE    END 


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DUE  AS  STAMPED  BELOW 

o  m  SEP  10  '91 

FORM  NO.  DD6 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  BERKELEY 
BERKELEY,  CA  94720 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


U.C.  BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


CD3137Dm3 


